


The Hunter Circus

by WuvWinchesterHugs



Series: Crossovers [4]
Category: Supernatural, The Night Circus - Erin Morgenstern
Genre: F/M, Gen, Inspired by The Night Circus, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-01-01 07:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 75
Words: 121,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WuvWinchesterHugs/pseuds/WuvWinchesterHugs
Summary: The circus appears out of the blue. There's no announcement in the papers, no billboards, no posts on social media. One day, the entire thing was set up, where there used to be nothing but an empty field.





	1. Anticipation

**Author's Note:**

> This entire work is a reimagining of the Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern. I do not own anything, and all reimaginings are in no way shape or form meant to be a replacement for the book itself.

 

The circus appears out of the blue. There's no announcement in the papers, no billboards, no posts on social media. One day, the entire thing was set up, where there used to be nothing but an empty field.

The tents are black and white, with hints of silver and iron. Any unusual colors come from the nature surrounding it; the leaves on the trees, the grass underneath.

There's not just a few tents either. The number of tents seem endless, surrounded by an iron fence that looks older than the circus itself.

Even the ground inside the fence is colored black and white, whether by some powdered substance or some other trick is unknown.

It doesn't take long for locals to take notice. By the time it's close to opening, word has spread to several towns over. Naturally, word about a circus that everyone swears they've never seen before is big news in this quiet little town.

The people gathered at the fence marvel at the tents that seem to be the tallest. They marvel at the wonderful clock right inside the gate that nobody can really describe.

A sign informs the curious townsfolk,

“Opens at night. Closes come morning.”

Many ask why only at night, but nobody has a satisfying answer.

Despite this, come night, the crowd has nearly doubled, with you, of course, among them.

How could you pass up the chance to explore a circus? You stand in the glow of the evening light, jacket wrapped tight around your body as your warmth against the evening chill, waiting to see what lies in store.

The ticket booth is still dark, the tents only sway slightly when the breeze moves them. The only movement comes from the clock as it ticks by the minutes until opening, if you could even call it a clock at all.

From where you wait in the crowd, if you didn't know better, you’d say the circus is abandoned. Somewhere there's a sweet scent carried by the breeze, possibly caramel from inside, or maybe it's just the anticipation making you smell things.

Before long, the sun disappears off the horizon, and you along with the rest of the crowd are getting restless. You're almost ready to throw in the towel when it finally happens.

A loud pop is heard, barely audible over the loud crowd. Then, a flash of light.

One by one, strings of lights come to life, illuminating over the tents, like little fairies ready to welcome you in.

The crowd is staring in awe as this happens, a few gasps heard among them, as well as a few squeals from little kids.

Once the circus is completely illuminated, out of nowhere, a sign appears.

Perched on the tip top of the gates, more lights come alive. As they turn in, more audible pops are heard, some smoking or accompanied by flying sparks.

It appears random at first, but as they keep turning on, it becomes apparent very quickly that they're forming into letters. The letter C comes first, followed by a q, interestingly enough, and many e's. Once the final light comes on, the smoke and sparks cease to exist, and the sign can now be read.

You lean in carefully to get a better view, and in doing so, you find that the sign reads,

“Le Cirque de la Chasse.”

Some of the more distinguished people in the crowd smile upon recognition, while others keep looking at the sign in slight confusion. A little kid asks his mom what it means, and her reply can be heard throughout the entire crowd,

“The Circus of the Hunt.”

The words barely leave the woman's mouth when there's a loud shudder, and as everyone including you looks, you can see the gates moving to open on their own.

The circus is open for business.


	2. In Your Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1: Primordium
> 
> Now then, get your equipment–your quiver and bow–and go out to the open country to hunt some wild game for me. -Genesis 27:3

_Indiana, November 1988_

A man named Samuel Campbell receives a decent amount of calls asking for his help in the hunter world, but this is the first time in a while he can remember where he's actually received a letter in the mail, and it's also the first time ever that he's received it stuck to a young boy.

The lawyer that escorts him to the cabin won't explain anything, regardless of how much Samuel's assistant demands an answer, dropping the young man off with him and leaving without another word.

There's no need to read the letter inside the envelope for the assistant to know who it's for. The hazel eyes hidden under the dark brown bangs are a softer version of Samuel's own.

He takes the boy's hand, and sits him down behind his makeshift desk, not entirely sure what else he should do with him. The boy sits down on an upside down box, and the assistant brings him some water, but the boy never touches it.

The boy sits as still as he can as they both wait for Samuel's return. They hear him before the door to the cabin opens, loud footsteps that signify dirty boots.

The assistant leaves the boy's side to open the door for Samuel, informing him, “There's also a... package for you.”, and promptly slipping off, having had enough of this already awkward encounter.

Samuel takes a quick survey of the room, rifle strapped over one arm, a journal in in hand, looking for the “package” his assistant referred to. But it's not until he sees his own eyes staring back at him that he realizes what his assistant really meant.

A hunter like Samuel has no room for politeness, not when lives are at stake, so his absolute first reaction to meeting his grandson is, “Shit.”

The boy says nothing, just turns his head down to look at his feet. Finally, Samuel closes the cabin door and drops his journal on the makeshift desk, and looks at the boy again.

Upon seeing the letter on the boy's shirt, Samuel lunges for it, ripping it right off.

The name on the front bears his first and last name, but the letter inside is the more intriguing thing, as the handwriting is one he'd never seen before. However, as he skims it, he finds what he's looking for; the boy's been put in his custody, he's his grandson, and he's named after him.

“So you’re named after me, huh?” Samuel inquires. “At least he was smart enough to name one after the better man in the family.”

The boy only looks at him, but rather suddenly, the cup of water on the desk starts to wobble. It's almost like a miniature earthquake is making the cup move closer to the edge, until finally, it falls to the floor, spilling water all over the floor.

Whatever semblance of a smile Samuel might've had, it immediately vanishes as he looks back at the desk. The water on the floor begins to pool together, back into the cup, and the cup is rising back to the desk, like someone hit the rewind button to back before it fell.

The boy stares at the cup of water, slightly scared. Samuel takes the boy's face in one hand, holding it firm, scrutinizing both his eyes and face before finally releasing him.

“Maybe you'll be useful after all.” Samuel tells him, to which the boy says nothing.

Over the course of several weeks, Samuel attempts to refer to the boy by his full first name, but the boy refuses to answer to anything but just Sam.

Many months later, once Samuel’s thought long and hard about it, he writes a letter as well. He doesn't write an address to send it to, but crazily enough, it goes exactly where it's meant to.


	3. A Gentleman's Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight is the final hunter's seminar for quite some time. Samuel Campbell hasn't voluntarily chosen to teach hunters his methods in years, and this event is only for a week.

_Kansas, October 1988_

Tonight is the final hunter's seminar for quite some time. Samuel Campbell hasn't voluntarily chosen to teach hunters his methods in years, and this event is only for a week.

Naturally, hunters swarmed to the event, eager to learn new cures and techniques from the great Samuel Campbell.

Over the course of one seminar, a vampire, a werewolf, and even a demon is cured right in front of their eyes. Naturally, the hunters attending are in awe at having a new way to help humans that don't involve killing innocent people.

However, there's one hunter whose expression never changes. Not when a cure previously believed impossible turns out to be true, nor when a cure none of them have ever heard before turns out to be the best cure of them all. He just watches as the volunteers scream and gasp in pain, clearly not impressed.

Once the seminar has ended, the man in the leather jacket heads to the back room where Samuel Campbell is currently occupying, and knocks on the door.

The door swings open almost instantly, and the room is covered in papers with drawings of sigils, incantations, and creatures. All of it evidence of Samuel Campbell's work as a hunter.

“I knew you hated it.” Samuel says now, washing the bodily fluids off his equipment.

“Nice to see you too, Samuel.” The man addresses him, closing the door.

“It doesn't take a genius to know you thought it was completely barbaric.” Samuel chuckles. “I saw you the minute you came in.”

Samuel gestures to a chair, “Sit.”

The man complies, informing him, “It's not right, what you're doing. Making people believe what you're showing them is a cure, and making off with the money they paid for that advice.”

Samuel blows this off, saying, “They're fool enough to believe that supernatural creatures actually deserve to be cured. I'm just giving them the ultimate cure, and capitalizing on their naivety. You know as well as I do that if I wasn't doing it, someone else would. That's the price you pay when you choose to be a hunter. I'm just getting by.”

“That doesn't make it any more right.” the man quips, then moves on, “Although for a moment, I could've sworn that you were onto something.”

“Has to be convincing, otherwise they might think I'm lying to them.” Samuel laughs at his own cruel joke. “By the way, thank you for showing up. Was beginning to think you were gonna stiff me.”

The man reminds him, “You sent me a letter, of all things. A way for me to possibly, and I quote, 'stick it to me, once and for all’?”

Samuel's brought back to the more important matter, and tells him, “Yes, actually, I do. What would you say to a game? Haven't had a worthy player or opponent in years. But now I have! Wanna meet him?”

John's surprised, “Thought teaching one-on-one wasn't your style.”

“It's not, but I think you'll see in a moment why I changed my mind.” He goes to another door, calling, “Sam!”

In a moment, the small boy the man had thought he'd left to a loving family appears, and immediately, he knows now he was wrong.

The boy does look as if he's been well cared for, though. Hair slicked back with a curl at his neck, nice looking clothes. Upon seeing the man, Sam hesitates, but when there's no recognition in his eyes, everyone relaxes.

“Come here, Sam.” Samuel orders, gesturing for him to move closer. “This is a colleague of mine.”

Sam complies, still nervous around the stranger.

“This is my grandson, Sam.” Samuel says to the man in the leather jacket. “Sam, this is John.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Sam says quietly, and John only gives him a small nod, not giving away the emotional turmoil he's learned to hide so well.

“Show him what you can do.” Samuel instructs, pulling out a very old silver pocketwatch. “Do it.”

Sam's eyes are immediately filled with fear. “You said if that happened, people would hunt me. You swore me to secrecy.”

“This man is not one of those people.” Samuel assures him. “Just this once. Show him what you can do.”

Sam takes a moment to compose himself, and puts all his focus on the pocketwatch.

The hands on the watch's clock begin to turn faster of their own accord, and the watch itself begins to lift itself into the air, like it's attached to a string.

Samuel looks to John, clearly expecting him to be impressed.

John only says, “Interesting, but a simple spell would get the same result.”

Then the glass of the watch’s face suddenly shatters, sending the gears and gadgets flying.

Samuel grabs Sam's wrist, “What did I say about that?”

Sam goes rigid at the sharp tone, and gives a timid nod. Almost as soon as it happens, the gears rewind themselves, going straight back to the watch, all of them going back to their rightful spots, and the face closing to cover them up, the glass healing itself and the entire watch back to ticking like normal, like it was never broken.

That definitely got John's attention, “Now that I definitely wasn't expecting. But he's not entirely in control of his emotions, is he?”

“He's still young “ Samuel says, giving a hard Pat on Sam's shoulder. “And that was just from one year of honing his abilities. When he reaches adulthood, even I won't be able to stop him.”

At this, John realizes what he needs to do, even though it might just kill him to do it, “I could easily teach my own son equally powerful stuff. Unstoppable is a matter of opinion, not true merit.”

Seeing he's getting what he wants, Samuel smiles, “Can I take that as a yes?”

John hesitates, because he can't believe it's actually come to this. But if he knows his son, he will emerge victorious.

“A little more complex than your usual thing, then I might take you up on it. Maybe.” John finally concedes.

Samuel scoffs, “Of course! This is natural talent here. You really think I'd bet that on something simple?”

“Natural talent is, again, a matter of opinion. What about innate ability?”

“He's my grandson! You really think I wouldn't know if he had innate ability?”

“You said he's had training. But are you so sure about that?”

Samuel addresses Sam, “Sam, how long ago did I start your training?”

“March.” Is the reply.

“And what year was that?”

“This one.”

Samuel clarifies, “In other words, 8 months. At 6 years old, no less. My other opponents were way younger than that. Sam here is more advanced because he was born with his abilities. That trick I just showed you? He did it on the first try.”

John addresses Sam now, “Didn't you break that watch by accident?”

Sam nods only slightly.

John makes the remark of, “He's got incredible control for someone his age. But with emotions out of control like that, it could guarantee your loss.”

“I assure you, when the time comes, that problem will not be an issue.”

Samuel seems to understand that John needs to say something he doesn't want Sam to hear, so he covers Sam's ears tightly with both of his hands, and John continues,

“You would bet your own grandson? And my son, as well?”

“My grandson will not lose. I suggest you get your son into fighting shape. Hope you two weren't close, either.”

“I'm guessing you're not taking no for an answer?”

“You guess correctly.”

John considers Sam, and his own son, Dean, before he answers again,

“You realize you need to accept that he might lose, right? If I take this bet, it needs to be with the assurance that both players have a real chance.”

Samuel isn't fazed, “I'm more than willing to take that chance. What do you say we get this started now?”

John flinches ever so slightly, but he realizes he's backed himself into a corner. Like it or not, this whole thing is getting very real very fast. And if this is going to play out like he hopes, he needs to play along.

John nods, “Agreed.” He turns to Sam, “Hold out your right hand.”

Sam does, ever so hesitantly, and Samuel pulls a silver ring from his pocket, sliding it on Sam's ring finger.

The first immediate thought is that it's way too big for Sam's small hand, and just as Sam's about to say so, the ring starts to shrink. Sam's momentarily impressed when it seems to shrink to fit his hand, but it still doesn't stop. No, instead, the ring shrinks into his skin, digging into it until the metal has disappeared, and all that's left is a round scar on Sam's ring finger.

“I already have my player. But I'll need some time to get him ready.”

Samuel nods, handing John a gold ring. “Take this then. When you feel he is ready.”

John takes the ring and pockets it, asking, “So where's the venue supposed to be?”

Samuel smirks, “Thought giving more leeway would make it a little more fun. I happen to know someone who would be more than willing to set it all up. Once I'm ready to get this whole thing started, I'll start dropping hints. And like you said, neutral ground all the way. But because I'm such a nice guy, I'll let you start things here in Kansas.”

“What's the guy's name?”

“Novak. Gabriel Novak. Claims to be a bit of a trickster. I think you'll like him, though.”

Samuel hands John Gabriel's card, and John doesn't even glance at it as he pockets it.

“Anything about a disclosure clause? Seems only fair, since I know who your player is."

Samuel disagrees, “Nah. Let's just use the basic rules of interference. No time limits, you get the first move.”

John sighs, and nods, “Very well. I'll let you know.” He goes back to the door he came through, nodding to Sam, “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

With that, John Winchester leaves the room.


	4. The Scent of Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once he's inside, he sits his son Dean down, and explains everything best he can, while also omitting the big details. Some might call that unfair, but John truly believes it's for the best if he hopes this goes in their favor.

_Ohio January 1989_

The motel is as sketchy as the last one John and his son Dean occupied. Room near the back, people either smoking or looking to get lucky. But when you're a hunter, you aren't exactly rolling in money, and you need to be as discreet as possible.

Since these places aren't uncommon among hunters, John doesn't look that out of place as he drives his car back to his parking spot in front of their room.

Once he's inside, he sits his son Dean down, and explains everything best he can, while also omitting the big details. Some might call that unfair, but John truly believes it's for the best if he hopes this goes in their favor.

Once John is through, Dean begins the questioning John was expecting,

“So, I have a little brother you gave up after mom died, and he's now being raised by my grandfather?”

John nods.

“And now, he's part of some sick game? And you didn't even stop him?” Dean seems more upset than John was expecting, but John attempts to defend himself.

“I don't know that boy anymore, Dean. And I didn't know where he ended up. All I do know is that if we have any chance of saving your brother, we need to play the game.”

This is a lot for Dean to take in, at only 9 years old. First he loses his mom at 4, now a brother he never knew he had is wrapped up in some sick game, and it's up to him to play it.

John understands this, and lets Dean have some time to himself so he can process it.

Dean's processing turns out to be a few hours of researching, watching TV, and going about their normal routine. John knows he should be pushing Dean more, but he needs Dean to come to terms with this on his own. Even John could tell that Samuel didn't have that with Sam, and that's going to need to be part of their strategy if they're going to have a leg up.

 

Finally, in the early afternoon the next day, Dean comes to John with his answer.

“I'll do it.”

John's heart breaks hearing that, but he knows neither of them really have a choice.

“Are you sure?” John needs to know that Dean isn't going to change his mind, because once he's in, there's no going back.

Dean nods, “Yeah. But what exactly do I need to do?”

John begins to explain, “Basically, when not hunting, you'll be studying magic. Illusions, spells, all of it. When you're older, you'll have to commit to the game full time.”

That makes Dean's head hurt at the thought of having to do more research. But he's already said yes, and he's not going back on his word.

Now that it's been established, John says, “Alright. Now let's pack up and head to the next hunt. Just cause you have a game to prep for, doesn't mean everything is gonna change immediately.”

And just like that, the two Winchesters are packing up the 1967 Impala, and driving away, towards a salt and burn a few states over.


	5. I've Got the Magic in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic lessons for Sam and Dean

_1990-1995_

Sam grows up largely in cabins far away from the outside world. Most often in the Bible Belt, but there's always long stretches in the big cities. Every now and then they even leave the country. But because Samuel is a hunter, they blend as easily as any other. More often than not, the cabins they stay in look so similar, half the time Sam can't even remember what city they're in.

While Sam's still pint-sized, his grandfather brings him everywhere, yanking him around like a dog on a leash, dressed as his assistant and always polite when he was brought to meet with another hunter. When Samuel decides Sam's too old to be brought everywhere, he begins to leave Sam at the cabins by himself.

Sam often wonders if he has to worry that one day Samuel will dump him in a cabin and not come back. But always, Samuel comes back, sometimes drunk, sometimes stressed, always early in the morning when Sam should be sleeping.

With these changes also come a change to his lesson plan. Whereas before Samuel would have Sam practice at specific times each day, now it almost seems like they're never ending, although they're always in the privacy of their current cabin.

Things Sam now realises he took for granted are now things he can no longer do without using his abilities. Tying his shoes, pulling a glass from the cabinet, even pulling his pants back up, Samuel wouldn't let him do unless he used them.

When Sam asks about what this is all for, naturally Samuel is as stoic as ever. All Sam really knows is that the man in the leather jacket that visited them that one time, called John, also has someone who he's teaching, and before Sam knows it, will be participating in a game of some kind.

Once, only once, does Sam ask Samuel, “What kind of game? Like chess?”

Even Sam has enough sense to not ask again when Samuel responds, “Not even close to chess.”

 

Weirdly enough, when John and Dean have committed to playing the game, the motel visits diminished to very few, until apparently the impending game lurking over their heads scared John enough to where he decided to find a small house where Dean could begin studying for the game.

Dean's no longer allowed to accompany John on hunts, John choosing to call another hunter for backup. Dean becomes extremely isolated, only ever seeing John when he drops off food for either only Dean, or the both of them on the rare occasion when John feels guilty enough to stay in.

Now that Dean's been sentenced to this isolation, he starts to read and write. Reading all of the books on magic his dad brings back, and copying down the things he can't quite grasp so he can keep rewriting them until he knows them by heart.

Other than that, he reads books on history, mythology, and even a novel here and there. Before long, he's even learning new languages that go beyond just Latin.

Occasionally, John will allow a complete break from both hunting and studying, and take Dean on a field trip. Sometimes it's to the local theater for a movie he'd been dying to see, or maybe a car show, because Dean shares his love for cars with his dad. Dean doesn't let a single one go to waste, understanding it won't be long before these will be a thing of the past.

As often as humanly possible for a hunter, John visits him during the day to both drop off more books on magic, and to quiz Dean on his progress.

But still, there's always times here and there where Dean can't help but wonder why his Dad is making him do this, for a brother he's never met, or even seen. Not to mention, although his knowledge of magic increases every day, he's never asked to actually demonstrate any of it.

Only once Dean asks John when he'll actually be able to practice his new skills, skills that John himself rarely demonstrates himself, if ever.

The look on John's face when Dean asks that is almost enough to where he considers taking it back, because that look of pain doesn't belong on his father's face.

But too soon, the look is gone, replaced with the same stoic face, and John only says, “Not until you're ready.”

Dean winds up not being ready for still a long time after that.

 

The volunteers that Samuel calls to the audience are often dismissed from the front once the feat has been proven successful, but one time, something went horribly wrong, and Samuel had to bring the victim to the back to avoid panic.

Upon seeing this, Sam inspects the damage, and sees the victim is coughing up blood and whimpering in pain.

“Can you heal her?” Sam asks.

Samuel looks at the victim, then at Sam, but says nothing, waiting for Sam to ask the right question.

“Can I heal her?” Sam reiterates.

“Give it a go.” Samuel steps back, allowing room for Sam to get close enough.

Sam attempts to comfort the victim, placing a hand on her forehead, closing his eyes in concentration as he tries to heal whatever it is that's wrong with her.

The victim's whimpering gets louder, almost to shrieking, and Sam has to step back and shake his head in shame.

“I can't do it.” Sam says, tears threatening to form in his eyes.

Samuel only raises his gun and puts a bullet in her brain, ignoring the gasp of shock that comes from Sam.

“You should've known better than to try and go beyond your limits. Practice on this.” Samuel picks up a glass bottle of holy water and throws it against the wall, smashing it into tiny shards.

When Sam walks up to him the next day with the bottle healed, water and all, Samuel barely gives him a small nod of approval and promptly dismisses him, already more focused on his next upcoming seminar.

Sam suddenly feels bold, and he challenges Samuel, “You could've saved her.”

Samuel wisely decides to lie to Sam here, “You're right. I could've. But why do that when I could turn it into a lesson on limitations? You'll never overcome limitations if you don't know what they are. After all, isn't that how you win?”

Sam nods slowly, looking at the glass bottle in his hand. It's a beautiful bottle, with lines etched in the glass that might've at one point been sigils or runes. There's no evidence that it had even been smashed.

Sam throws it against a wall when Samuel isn't looking, and doesn't bother to fix it when they leave town.

 

John takes Dean on a week of sightseeing that's not exactly a road trip. It's definitely unexpected; Dean's duffel bag is already packed when he wakes up one morning.

At first, Dean thinks it's part of his new training regimen, but John doesn't bring up anything about it even once. After one stop, Dean begins to wonder if they're doing some sort of tour of all the state fairs, head over heels in love with the fried foods offered at all of them, anything from a piece of pie to a stick of butter.

When they're not doing that, they're visiting strange exhibits, some that are even solely dedicated to the supernatural. John quietly tells Dean to try and remember this the best he can.

Dean's always been slow when it comes to capturing images in his mind, but when he asks for something to sketch in, John tells him to at least try to remember them on his own before John will even consider it.

And then, of all things, Dean is sent to a seminar.

Dean expects this to be boring on every level, like some stupid pyramid scheme or a product he definitely doesn't want or need, but instead, the seminar he sees is something he never thought he'd see.

The man that walks on stage is confident, calmly talking to the audience. He speaks with confidence as he says a name, and watches for someone in the audience to react. It's apparent that he's well versed in the art of cold reading.

Dean makes sure to pay attention to both the man speaking and the audience, and quickly notices that the audience has no clue that anything the man is saying is a lie.

Afterwards, Dean asks his dad what the point of the seminar was, he's told that he'll get his answers after the week is over, and they're back in their usual hunting routine.

The following night, there's another seminar, except this time when Dean surveys the audience, it quickly becomes apparent that he's among an impressive crowd of hunters.

The man that walks on stage is bald, and there's a hardness in his eyes that Dean could almost swear he's seen in his father's. However, as the man starts to speak, Dean is quickly assured that this man is nothing like John.

There's no cold or hot reading at all. Instead, hunters bring forward captured monsters and creatures, and even Dean is entranced when he sees the creature cured right before his eyes. This is the kind of stuff that he'd been learning before the game had been introduced, stuff that they could seriously benefit from for hunting.

When the seminar is through, even Dean is clapping right along with the other hunters.

Again, John doesn't answer any questions until they're out of town and back in a motel, on their way back to the small house.

Once that's done, they fall back into their old routine, to the point where Dean's actually having a hard time remembering there was even a disruption.

But John quickly gets straight to the point,

“What was the difference between the seminars I had you see?”

Dean answers immediately, “The first one was just using cold reading to make people believe he could communicate with the dead. The second one, he wasn't faking anything. He knows what we know.”

John nods in approval, “Good, good.”

Curious, Dean asks, “Do you know him?”

John decides to admit it, “Yes, I do. That was Samuel Campbell, your grandfather.”

Naturally, Dean is astonished, “So he's the one teaching my brother magic for the game, like you are for me?”

John nods, but it's clear that's all he feels comfortable admitting at this time.

But something else about those two seminars is still bugging him, “How could those people let that man con them into thinking their loved ones would speak to him?” To Dean, it's pretty obvious. Yes, the dead are among the living, but they're not here to send messages or any of the crap that man was trying to sell.

John explains, “People need closure, and when someone steps up to give it, they don't question it.”

Once that's settled, the topic doesn't come up again.

After that, while there are other weeks where they deviate from the usual lessons, Dean's not taken to attend another seminar again.

 

Samuel Campbell uses a switchblade to slit open Sam's fingertips, one after another, watching the tears prick Sam's eyes, but not fall as he's finally able to calm down and heal them himself, making the blood slowly suck itself back into his fingers, and the slits slowly closing up and mending themselves back to their original undamaged state.

Sam lets out a breath of relief, letting himself relax to release the tension as he heals himself.

Samuel only gives him moment or two before he takes the switchblade and cuts his fingertips open again.

 

Finally, the day arrives when John has no choice but to admit that if Dean's going to be in the game, he needs to learn about binding magic.

They sit at the table in their motel across from each other, and John wordlessly pulls out a take out napkin and sets it on the table, a small clatter heard that's definitely not the napkin. Slowly, John lifts the napkin, and a gold ring falls out of the folds. It's obviously an antique, slightly tarnished and engraved with words that might've been Latin in its younger years.

“Dean, today's the day you need to learn about binding.”

The lesson goes like normal, until they reach the point where a demonstration is necessary.

“Hold out your hand, and place the ring on your finger.” John instructs.

Dean complies, and once it becomes apparent what is happening, tries in vain to pull it off, but just like Sam, it's in vain as he watches it dissolve into his skin.

“I'm sorry, Dean, but this is the only way to make sure you're on the board.” John apologizes, hoping Dean knows he means it.

“The board for what?” Dean asks, frowning at the newly formed scar that wasn't there before.

“For the game that your grandfather has forced your brother into, the one that I have now just done the same, in a vain attempt to save him.” John admits bitterly. “But you won't meet him for quite a while, this much I know.”

Dean nods like he understands, but that night, while his dad snores in the other bed, Dean just stares at his hand, wondering what this brother he's now apparently bound to is like.

 

Miles away, in a room far away from all the applause from the hunters seeing yet another cure take place in front of them, Sam makes himself as small as possible, scrunched up in a ball, and cries silently.


	6. Swing Low (Sweet Chariot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At some point, Dean asks John again when the game is supposed to start, only to once again be blown off. All Dean can really be sure of is that Dean's formal lessons have come to an abrupt end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for all of these establishing chapters, but this is the one that brings Pamela into the story.

_May-June 2001_

5 months after Dean turns 22, John has Dean pack up his things and takes him to Springfield, Ohio, in an apartment for one with a nice view of Springfield University.

At first Dean thinks this is just another temporary reprieve. The past few months traveling across the country have been filled with more studying rather than sightseeing. But he quickly abandons the idea when he realizes this isn't one of them.

The apartment is nice enough, cleaner than the usual motel occupied by a hunter, but the place is still so similar to them that Dean doesn't particularly feel any kind of attachment to it, other than the books he's gone over so many times and grown to love.

However, when he looks through the small closet, he finds himself getting his inner geek on when he finds several suits reminiscent of Sean Connery in The Untouchables.

At some point, Dean asks John again when the game is supposed to start, only to once again be blown off. All Dean can really be sure of is that Dean's formal lessons have come to an abrupt end.

Now, he has to continue them all on his own, with John leaving Dean the Impala, having bought his own truck. Every chance he gets, Dean buys a new notebook to fill with sigils and runes, constantly going over his old notes and finding things he'd never considered before. Dean also buys pocket sized ones that he keeps with him at all times so he can write something down whenever inspiration strikes, and copying them into the larger ones.

Oddly enough, he always starts his notebooks the same way; a very detailed drawing of a garden on the front cover. He connects all the the roots together, making them stretch out onto the inside of the pages, and ultimately forming letters and symbols, covered in Dean's distinct handwriting. All of them stretching and connecting back towards the garden on the cover.

There's many similar gardens on his bookshelf, big enough to be its own garden of Eden.

All of his teachings Dean now begins to practice, although since he's now having to do it on his own, so he can't be entirely sure if they're actually effective, so often, he winds up in the bathroom looking at his effectiveness in the mirror.

Now that he's not forced into isolation, Dean often leaves the apartment for a walk around the city. After so long by himself, all the people going back and forth is a bit overwhelming, but the excitement of being able to come and go whenever he wants trumps it easily.

He sits in bars or on park benches, spending his time people watching in the discreet hunter way he's known practically his whole life.

But then, one day on a whim, Dean travels back to the small house, foolishly thinking John was still using it as some sort of base camp, hoping they could have a chance to talk and catch up. So Dean's not that disappointed when he finds the place as empty as they'd left it, with the windows now boarded up.

Dean doesn't think too hard on it, and walks back to his car to start making the drive back to his apartment, reaching for his pocket size notebook, only to be taken off guard when he realizes it's not there.

Dean swears out loud, ignoring the dirty look from a woman passerby, and gets in the Impala to start retracing his steps. He wastes several hours looking for it, getting more pissed when there's no luck.

He looks for it long enough to where a light mist starts to fall, and he has to look carefully along the sidewalk through the raindrops on his car's window.

Finally, he slows down at the sight of a restaurant he'd stopped at earlier that day, wondering if he should attempt to look for it later when it's not as crowded.

But then, he notices there's a woman not much younger than him a few feet away from outside the restaurant, flipping through the pages of a small notebook Dean knows for a fact belongs to him.

Her hair is dark, which is only made shinier by the rain, with bright eyes and dressed in a very attractive jeans and t shirt ensemble that would not be out of place in the bars he's been frequenting.

Dean parks the Impala a block away and gets very close to her, but she's so absorbed in his notebook she doesn't even notice. She's even covered it with one of her arms to keep it from getting wet. Now that Dean's almost in her personal space, Dean can now confirm that it's definitely his notebook, and she's currently on a page with a card glued onto it, with one of his own creations drawn completely on it, a mechanical version of a Wendigo. His own handwriting covers the card as well as nearly the entire page, seamlessly blending into the text that makes up the drawing.

Dean watches her look through the notebook for a moment, a look of curiosity and intrigue on her face, before he finally decides to speak up.

“Excuse me, but I believe that belongs to me.” Dean speaks up, startling the woman out of her trance. This causes her to almost drop the notebook, but she luckily manages to catch it before it can hit the ground. Dean reaches out carefully for the notebook, and the woman is surprised to see that instead of hostility, the man's actually smiling at her.

“Oh, god. I'm so sorry.” The woman quickly apologizes, handing the notebook right over. “You dropped it inside, so I picked it up and tried to chase you down, but then you just disappeared in the crowd so fast...I'm so, so sorry.” She stops herself, clearly embarrassed.

“Hey, it's alright.” Dean tells her, glad to have his notebook back. “I honestly thought this thing was a goner, and that would've been really bad news. I guess I owe you my thanks…?” Dean trails off, hoping she'll fill in the blanks.

“Barnes.” She supplies, quickly catching on, and Dean's surprised that she didn't try to lie. “Pamela Barnes.” Then she raises her eyebrows, a question in her eyes.

“Dean.” he says. “Dean Winchester.” It feels weird using his real name after so many years of fake aliases. But Pamela's quick acceptance of it assures him he made the right call.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester.” Pam says now.

Dean quickly amends, “Please. Mr. Winchester is my father. Call me Dean.” Really, he has no reason to drag this moment out; he has his notebook, and he's thanked her. He should just be on his merry way. But for whatever reason he doesn't quite understand, Dean doesn't particularly feel like going back to his apartment alone by himself just yet.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink to thank you, Pamela?” Dean asks as he slips his notebook back into his pocket where it belongs.

Pamela hesitates at first, more than likely because she has enough smarts to know what happens to women who accept drinks from men they've never met. So Dean's definitely surprised when Pamela accepts.

“I could definitely go for a drink.” Pamela says.

“Great.” Dean replies. “But trust me, there's bars around here way better than the one in this little restaurant.” Dean gestures to the sign in front of them. “And they're a reasonable distance from here, if you don't mind getting slightly wet. Unfortunately, I don't happen to have an umbrella on me.”

“Doesn't bother me.” Pamela tells him. Dean offers the space next to him, away from the street so she can stay dry under the awnings, and they make their way down the street.

They wind up only walking two blocks away, before walking down a narrow alleyway, and even though they're not holding hands, Dean can tell Pamela's slightly nervous. Luckily, that doesn't last long once Dean leads them to a brightly lit window.

Dean goes to the door first, opening it and letting her walk through it first, and following her in.

Turns out, Dean hasn't led them to a bar at all. It's a small cafe where apparently they have an amazing breakfast menu. It's no wonder Dean frequents this place enough to where he knows how to find it in the dark.

Since it's closer to night, the tables are all lit with small candles, with only a few people scattered around there other than them. They sit at a booth by the big window, and Dean waves the waiter over, who leaves them with a small basket of french toast sticks lightly dusted with powdered sugar, with syrup on the side, then leaving them to their own devices.

As the rain continues fall, Dean and Pamela make polite conversation about inconsequential things; Dean doesn't offer much insight to his own life, nor does Pamela.

When Dean asks if she could go for a full breakfast for dinner, Pamela politely declines in a way that's obvious to Dean she's lying. He calls the waiter back over to them and orders a decent sized spread for the two of them to share. When the waiter brings it to them, Pamela's impressed by the plates of waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon and pancakes, all with their own sides of butter or syrup.

“Jesus. How did you find this little diamond in the rough?” Pamela asks.

“Trial and error.” Dean replies. “Along with one too many drunken stupors.”

Pamela laughs at this, and tells him, ”Sorry for that. But it looks like you had the last laugh here. This is a very cool setup. Little piece of heaven.”

“A piece of heaven with killer breakfast.” Dean agrees, tipping his mimosa towards her.

“Kinda reminds me of a more classy diner.” Pamela notes.

Dean's surprised, “You frequent diners too?”

“Not really.” Pamela tells him. “I just know where to go if I want information on the town.”

“Same here.” Dean says. “Although I haven't really done that in awhile. And you're right, this place did take inspiration from a diner. I think that's why it's so easy to remember. Lot of places think they can just serve slop and call it food.”

“You're quite the charmer.” Pamela says, slightly embarrassed at having admitted that so flippantly.

“Um... thanks?” Dean replies, not sure if Pamela's complimenting him or not.

“Oh god. I'm sorry.” Pamela tries to cover. “I shouldn't have…” Pamela trails off again, but maybe it's the mimosa that makes it easier to say what she does next, “There's symbols in that little notebook of yours.” She starts, watching carefully for his reaction, but he says nothing, prompting her to look away. “Runes, sigils... I'm not exactly sure what a lot of them even mean, but they're supposed to aid in magic, right?”

She sips her mimosa again before working up the courage to look straight at him.

When Dean finally responds, he does so carefully, paranoid at how easily this conversation could go sour.

“What could a fellow diner hopper possibly know about runes and sigils?” Dean asks.

“Only the stuff I learned growing up.” Pamela replies. “Not all of them stick. I only know the ones that pertain to communicating with the dead, or summoning symbols. The others, not so much.” Pamela pauses here to consider her next words carefully, before adding, “Rota Fortunae, the Wheel of Fortune. That miniature sized card from your notebook. I know it. I have my own deck myself.”

Earlier, Dean had just written her off as nothing more than a random bar hopper with mild curiosity, and a very pretty one at that, so this new information makes him realize he had her all wrong. Dean leans in closer now, regarding her words more seriously than he had moments ago.

“You mean you read tarot cards?” Dean asks.

Pamela nods. “Uh huh. Or, at least, I try to. Only for me at the moment, though, so I guess you can't really call it reading. It's...kind of something I just picked up along the way.”

“You by chance have your deck with you?” Dean asks. Pamela nods again. “Can I see it? Only if it's alright with you.” Dean adds, when Pamela doesn't move to pull them out. Pamela looks nervously around the place towards the other people occupying the place. “Don't worry about them.” Dean assures her. “Most who come here keep to themselves, and respect each other's privacy. But if you'd rather do that, I'd understand.”

“No, not at all.” Pamela assures him, pulling the well used deck from her pocket, wrapped in a silk pocket. Carefully, she removes them from from the pocket and sets them down on an empty spot on the table.

“May I?” Dean asks politely, reaching a hand to pick them up.

“Go right ahead.” Pamela responds, surprised.

“I've found those that carry these nifty cards don't particularly like anyone else touching them.” Dean explains, recalling small details from one of his lessons on divination. “Last thing I want to be is inconsiderate.” He lifts up the top card, revealing the Chariot.

Dean smiles slightly at it before putting it back in the pile.

“What about you? Do you read?” Pamela asks him.

“No, not at all.” Dean denies. “I'm just familiar with them. They don't speak to me, at least not well enough to be read.” Dean takes this moment to look up from the deck back to Pamela, now not sure at all what to make of her. “But don't they speak to you?”

“Never thought of it like that, but I guess you're right.” She says. She continues to sit with him quietly, watching him go through her entire deck slowly. She notices that he's being as careful with them as she had been with his notebook, turning them around by their edges. Once he's reached the end of the deck, he sets them back on the table.

“This is an old deck.” Dean starts. “A lot older than you, I'd presume. How'd you wind up with them?”

“Found them down in New Orleans, in a voodoo shop. It was obvious the woman didn't even know they were there, because once I showed them to her, she just told me to take them, and not bring them back under any circumstances. She was extremely superstitious. Didn't want anything to do with the Devil's cards, as she called them.”

“People are often superstitious of the wrong things.” Dean says, something he knows to be true from years of hunting with his father. “They'd rather believe a deck of cards is evil, while completely ignoring what's right in front of them. A sad truth, but still the truth.”

“Out of curiosity, what is that notebook for?” Pamela suddenly asks. “I don't mean to stick my nose in where it doesn't belong, it's just so intriguing. I'm sorry again for looking at it.”

“Guess we're even, now that you've let me look at your cards.” Dean says. “Unfortunately, what my notebook is for is a lot more complicated than a deck of tarot cards. It's definitely up there in the 'i seriously can't believe it’ category.”

“You'd be surprised what I'm willing to believe.” Pamela says. Dean doesn't reply, just studies her like he did her cards. Pamela stares back, holding his gaze and refusing to look away.

There's no way. The odds of finding someone who might actually understand why he sees the world the way he does are slim to none. He knows the rational thing to do is to walk away, but he just can't.

“I can show you, if you're up to it.” Dean finally offers.

“Absolutely.” Pamela quickly agrees.

They finish their little breakfast spread and mimosa, Dean paying the bill and grabbing his leather jacket and leading Pamela out of the cafe, stepping away from the warmth and into the freezing rain.

About a block away, Dean suddenly stops right in the middle of it, right outside a courtyard.

“This’ll work.” He says. Dean leads Pamela off the pavement and into the space between the wall and the gate, having her back against the wall, and stands in front of her, close enough to see the specks of rain in his forehead and eyelashes.

“What'll work?” she asks, much more nervous than she was in that dark alley. It's still raining, and there's nowhere for her to run or hide. Dean just puts a finger to his lips, gesturing for her to be quiet, focusing on both the rain and the wall she's leaning against.

He's never practiced this particular illusion on someone before, and he doesn't even know if it'll even work.

“Do you trust me, Pamela Barnes?” he asks, staring intently at her once again, their faces nearly inches apart.

“Yes.” Pamela answers immediately.

“Good.” Dean says, and before she knows what's happening, Dean abruptly covers her eyes with his hand.

 

Startled, Pamela tenses up. She can't see a thing with Dean covering her eyes, can only feel his bare skin touching hers. She shivers, not at all sure anymore if it's because she's cold, wet, scared, or all three. Suddenly, she hears a voice whisper in her ear, words she can't even begin to try and understand, let alone hear. When she suddenly realizes she can't hear the rain anymore, and the wall she's leaning against now feels rough, when she would've sworn on her life that it had been smooth. A moment ago it had been nearly pitch black, but now, it's like someone's slowly turning on a light, and before she can question it, Dean finally lowers his hand.

Pamela blinks a few times to adjust to the sudden brightness, and the first thing she sees is Dean still standing in front of her, but something is definitely different. Dean is no longer wet from the rain, in fact he looks bone dry. Instead, the sunlight that wasn't there moments before casts a small glow around him. But none of that is what makes her gasp.

No, that one gasp comes from the fact that they're now in a garden, her back pressed up against the tree trunk from the one tree in it. The tree doesn't have any leaves, the branches stretching upward like they're clawing at the cloudless sky above them. The ground is covered with rich soil and grass, covered in fresh morning dew that twinkles like stars in the morning light. It's a perfect spring morning, with not a single passerby to be seen in either direction, only the plants in the garden and tree.

Pamela is speechless. It's all real. She can feel the cool morning breeze against her skin, the tree bark against her back and fingers. The grittiness of the dirt is palpable, although she notes that she's not wet from the rain anymore. Even the air she's inhaling is unnaturally crisp, nothing like an Ohio summer. It's humanly impossible, and yet she has the proof right in front of her that it is.

“Impossible.” Pamela breathes, turning back to look at Dean. He smiles, his candy apple green eyes sparkling in the spring sun.

“I think we both know that's not true, don't we?” Dean says. Pamela laughs, the lighthearted laugh of regained youth.

A million questions run through her head, but she can't even begin to process any of them. But then, another card from her deck springs to her mind. “You're a magician.’ she informs him.

“I...can't believe no one's ever called me that before until now.” Dean responds, a hint of flatteredness in his voice. Pamela laughs again, in fact she's still laughing when Dean makes the first move and kisses her.

To passerby on the dark streets of Springfield, Ohio, they look like nothing more than two lovers kissing in the rain.


	7. Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What about this game you keep talking about, that I'm supposed to be training for?” Sam asks. “Or is that just another one of your make-money-by-hunting schemes?”

_July-November 2001_

Samuel Campbell doesn't give any formal explanation for abruptly ending his seminars. In recent years, they were stretched so far in between, that hunters had slowly lost interest, even going as far as to forget what they'd learned from Samuel. But Samuel still makes money, even if he's no longer the one providing the service.

Now, in addition to hunting, he hires out his grandson as a psychic medium.

It's so surprise that Sam frequently complains, “I hate doing this.”

But all Samuel says is, “Tell me another way to make yourself useful until it's time to play the game--if you say reading I will smack you---then by all means, go right ahead, long as you're able to make up the difference of the money you make when you perform. Anyway, it's good for you to get comfortable with being in front of an audience.”

“But they suck.” Sam says, although that's not exactly what he was trying to say. They're pitiful, the way they stare at him with tears running down their faces, begging to know more. They couldn't care less about him, he's just a means of getting what they really want, a way to communicate with the loved ones they believed were lost to them.

Whenever his name comes up, it's never even addressed to Sam himself. If you didn't know better, you'd think he wasn't there at all. It's almost like he's as unreachable as the loved ones they're trying to bring back to them. It's a miracle he doesn't hyperventilate when inevitably one of them hugs him tightly, thanking him through their tears.

“They're not important.” His grandfather tells him. “They couldn't even begin to grasp what it really means if a loved one is still roaming the Earth. It's easier to believe that they're here to pass on a message rather than for a vengeful reason. If they're fool enough to believe that, who are we to not take advantage?”

Sam firmly believes that you can't put a price on something like that, but Samuel won't budge, so they continue their everlasting road trip, levitating tables and creating fake knocking to sell the ruse.

Sam supposes he himself can understand why his clients want that two way communication so badly. Since he was told what happened to his mom, in the beginning he'd ached to try and contact her. But Samuel had informed him that since she'd died in a house fire, her body had burnt up with it, along with all her things, and so was no longer still roaming the Earth.

 _It's not real!_ He fantasizes himself telling them. _Spirits aren't here to talk to you or pass along any loving message. They're here for revenge!_

Occasionally, he smashes one of their heirlooms and blames it on the supposed spirits he's supposed to be contacting.

Also occasionally, Samuel changes Sam's name as they move from state to state, using Samuel a lot, if only because he knows Sam hates it.

Months later, Sam is completely spent from all the nonstop traveling and strain from using his powers, not to mention the new thing where Samuel limits his food intake, because looking pale and skinny helps to better convince people that he's connected to the other side.

It's only when Sam actually faints right in the middle of a seance instead of convincing convulsions that Samuel finally agrees that they need a break, and takes the both of them back to their cabin in Indiana.

During a mid morning snack one afternoon, as Samuel glares at the toaster waffle covered in butter and syrup Sam is currently stuffing in his mouth, he tells him that he's booked him for a reading for the weekend, for a mourning husband downtown that's willing to pay twice what they usually charge.

When Sam protests, Samuel reminds him, “I let you take a break. We've been doing that for three days. I'd say that's enough. You look better already. Wouldn't surprise me if you wind up being a better hunter than your mother ever was.”

“I'm surprised you'd even want to talk about her. You never do.” Sam says.

“Do you?” His grandfather asks, looking up from his research to glance at Sam, and continues when Sam says nothing, other than to frown, “You may not remember her at all, but I know things about her that she never wanted any of you to know. You only had her for six months. One of these days you'll understand how precious a thing like time really is.”

Samuel turns back to his research, the discussion clearly dropped.

“What about this game you keep talking about, that I'm supposed to be training for?” Sam asks. “Or is that just another one of your make-money-by-hunting schemes?”

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” Samuel says. “There are going to be incredible things in store for you, but we don't have any control over of when they'll start. We don't have the initiative. Someone will notify us when it's time for you to be put on the board, so to speak.”

Sam has to point out, “Then what's it to you whether I do this or not?”

“It's good practice for you.”

Sam smacks his hands on the table, staring straight at him as he tilts his head, making all the papers Samuel's looking at fold into intricate shapes of origami.

This prompts Samuel to look at Sam, clearly pissed, lift a heavy glass and slam it straight down on the back of one of Sam's hands, hard enough to break Sam's wrist and lose feeling in his hand.

The papers abruptly stop folding themselves, and land back on the table, lifeless.

“It's good practice.” Samuel repeats. “You still have issues with control.”

Sam just exits the room wordlessly, nursing his wrist and trying to keep quiet as he cries silently.

“And stop being a whiny little bitch!” Samuel calls after him.

It takes Sam nearly 45 minutes before he can reset the bones in his wrist and return the feeling back to his hand.

 

Pamela is sitting on the one chair in the living room in Dean's apartment, holding several ribbons as she attempts to make them braid themselves.

“This is ridiculous.” Pamela complains, frowning at the knotted mess.

“No, it's actually pretty simple.” Dean says from his dining table where several books are open in front of him. “One ribbon represents one element, and tye it in knots and your intent. Think of your tarot cards, only instead of figuring out what they mean for someone, you're influencing someone. But, silly as it sounds, it won't work unless you believe in it. Something you no doubt already know.”

“Then maybe I'm too frustrated to believe in the damn thing.” Pamela says, getting the knots loose and setting aside the ribbons. “I'm taking a rain check on these. Better luck tomorrow.”

“Good. Then you can help me out.” Dean says, looking up from his studying. “Picture something. Right now. Anything. Preferably something that's important to you. Something there's no way I could know about.”

Pamela sighs at Dean's refusal to take a break, but she complies, closing her eyes to concentrate.

“A tattoo.” Dean says after a few seconds, seeing the image in his mind's eye. “Two words. Jesse Forever.”

Pamela snaps open her eyes, “How the hell can you know about that?”

“Is he important to you?” Dean counters with a smile.

Pamela covers her mouth with her hand before nodding.

“You don't have it anymore.” Dean says, feeling the memories surrounding that tattoo. “You thought he was the one. Your parents found out and made you get it removed. You moved out shortly afterwards, which is what brings you here. How come I didn't know about this?”

“What exactly was I supposed to say?” Pamela says. “And it's not like you tell me anything either. You could have someone's name tattooed on you as well.”

They just stare at each other for a moment, while Dean tries to think of anything to say in response, but thankfully, Pamela breaks the silence first by laughing.

“He probably hasn't thought of me in a while.” She says, turning her head towards her backside where the tattoo used to be. “It was just a simple tattoo, but I still didn't want to get rid of it. But it was for the best.”

Dean starts to tell her that he can tell she doesn't miss the tattoo, but then there's a sudden knock on the door.

“Is it your landlord?” Pamela whispers, but Dean shakes his head as he goes straight to the door to answer it, already knowing who waits on the other side.

John Winchester only steps a few feet inside, and says, without greeting him,

“You're getting a job. This is your employer.”

He hands Dean an old business card, telling him, “I got an interview lined up for tomorrow afternoon. Can't say I've ever handled an issue for him in the past, but I've helped a bunch of his friends. They helped me put in a really good word for you, but anything you can do to sweeten the deal would be recommended.”

“Is the game starting?” Dean asks.

“It's more a pre-game setup, so you're in a position where you have a front row seat to behind the scenes.”

“Then when is the game starting?” Dean asks, despite knowing from personal experience how unsatisfactory the answer will be.

“We'll know when we know.” John tells him. “But once it does start, you should dedicate 100% towards the game itself.” He gestures to the bathroom where Pamela is waiting. “Without any room for distractions.”

With that, John exits as quickly as he came, leaving Dean with that business card, reading and rereading it.

 

Finally, after so long of Sam insisting they stay in Indiana, Samuel caves, but it's for his own purposes, not Sam's.

Occasionally he makes a remark that Sam should be practicing more than he is, but other than that, he completely ignores Sam, spending his time behind his closed bedroom door.

Sam's definitely happy with this new arrangement, choosing to spend his time reading. He sneaks out to the local used bookstore constantly, surprised when Samuel doesn't bother to ask where the new books came from.

But Sam does continue to practice, breaking and fixing anything he can touch in the cabin. Making things levitate, adjusting his technique when he calculates exactly how far they can fly.

He also has a gift for manipulating fabrics, altering his wardrobe as easily as a mother would mend a worn knee, to accommodate for the weight he's finally regained, finally feeling like himself again after so long.

However, Sam has to keep calling Samuel to come out from his room for meals, although his refusals continue more and more, choosing to stay where he is.

Today, no matter how much Sam knocks or begs, Samuel refuses to come out. Irritated, and knowing Samuel had to have done something to the door so as to prevent him from snooping, he kicks it in frustration, surprised when it swings right open.

Samuel's sitting on the bed, looking at his hands as he holds them both in front of him, the sunlight from the windows shining directly on him.

His hands are immobile, then they're moving again. He balls his hands into fists, frowning at how difficult doing just that was.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, curiosity trumping his irritability. That's definitely not something he's seen with Samuel before, not with him or when he demonstrated at a seminar.

“None of your damn business.” Samuel says, curling his hands into his chest, and walking towards the doorway.

With a swift kick, the door slams shut.


	8. Chase the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dartboard hands on the wall in his study, in between a bookcase and an oil painting of himself he had commissioned. You almost can't see it because it's so dark, but nevertheless, the throwing knife always hits the target, right on or near the bullseye, which has a newspaper clipping covering it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm a terrible person because this is another short chapter, but I think you'll forgive me when you realize this is the chapter that brings Gabriel into the story! Happy reading!

_Ohio, December 2001_

The dartboard hangs on the wall in his study, in between a bookcase and an oil painting of himself he had commissioned. You almost can't see it because it's so dark, but nevertheless, the throwing knife always hits the target, right on or near the bullseye, which has a newspaper clipping covering it.

The clipping in question is a review for a play done by Springfield University, taken from the college paper. The review isn't bad, not at all. In fact, the review is positive. But regardless, there it is, hanging from a dartboard, pierced by a knife every time it's thrown. Every word is pierced by the knife, only to have it pulled and pierced again.

The knife is being thrown expertly from the handle, so it always rotates continuously until it hits its mark, by Gabriel Novak, whose name appears in the badly abused article.

The particular part of the article that's the cause of this abuse is as follows,

“Mr. Novak continues to push the boundaries of the modern theater, amazing his audience with extravagance that's nearly unsurpassed.”

Anyone who isn't Gabriel would have killed to get a review like that, even go as far as to save the article to show off to their peers.

But because he is Gabriel Novak, he can't see anything but the word nearly. It's like it's taunting him. _Nearly._

The knife begins its next flight to the dartboard, over the furniture, and coming ridiculously close to a crystal carafe of whiskey. It performs a perfect somersault right into the dartboard once more. This time it leaves the article nearly shredded, with a few words gone completely.

Gabriel moves to the dartboard, pulling the knife out carefully but forcefully. Then he walks back across the room, holding his knife and now a glass of whiskey, and with a swift turnaround, throws the knife again, to obliterate that stupid word. Nearly.

He's gotta be doing something wrong. His productions can't just be nearly unsurpassed, not if they have a chance to be TRULY unsurpassed. If that's the case, he has to change something so he can get it.

This had been plaguing his mind ever since he was shown the article by his newly hired assistant. Other copies were given to him and filed away by said assistant, naturally, for other purposes, since the ones like that were given to him by hand usually end up like the one on the dartboard while Gabriel beats himself up over every word.

Gabriel lives for the reactions. And not fake reactions, either. Real reactions that bring people to tears. In fact, he'd almost say that the reactions are better than the show itself. After all, a theater without an audience is like a cake without a customer. The power of the response is what gives both their importance.

He'd been exposed to many forms of entertainment growing up. He'd always been a curious child, often getting himself into trouble when he got bored. But he also likes to see exactly what makes people tick, what makes them stay rather than leave.

So maybe it's not really a surprise how now he still pays more attention to the audience than the actual performance. Of course, you can't get anything from the audience unless there's something to show them.

And since he can't look closely at every face in the audience at every single show, ranging from _Hamlet to Cabaret_ , he has to rely on reviews.

But, he has to admit, it's definitely been awhile since he's had a review that's pissed him off as much as this one. Hell, most of those didn't even prompt knife throwing.

The knife goes into the dartboard one last time, making another word disappear.

Gabriel goes to grab it, sipping his whiskey. He takes a look at the now tattered article, looking to see which words are no longer there.

Then, he calls for Dean.


	9. Darkness and Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to take away from the story, so that's why this note is appearing here:
> 
> For future reference, when you see this image, it's a chapter about the circus itself, rather than the story.
> 
> Carry on.

Ticket in hand, you follow the ever growing line of people that are entering the circus with you, watching that wonderful clock as you wait your turn.

Past the ticket booth, the only way inside is through the opening of the striped curtain. One after another, one person vanishes from sight as they enter.

Once it's your turn, you pull back the fabric of the tent and bravely venture inside, only to be left completely in the dark once you drop the curtain.

You need a moment or two to adjust, and once you have, you realize you're not in the dark at all. All along the tunnel, tiny pinpricks of light appear like stars on a clear night, all along the walls.

You realize a moment ago that you could've sworn that you'd had a few people in front of you when you entered, but now as you walk down the winding tunnel, you're by yourself.

The tunnel feels like it goes on forever, with only the tiny stars to light the way. There's no way of knowing how long you've been walking, or even if you're heading the right way.

Finally, you reach what appears to be the end, lifting the curtain that feels so buttery smooth through your fingers.

The light that comes through then you lift the curtain is like the coming of Christ.


	10. Dare to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth or Dare.” Jane calls down from her branch. When there's no response, she picks an acorn from a higher branch and chucks it at Jack's head. “I said, truth or dare, Jack!” she repeats, louder this time.

_Concord, Massachusetts, September 2012_

They're sitting by an old oak tree in the afternoon, the five of them. Jane, his sister, is actually sitting in the tree, because she's always had a sense of adventure about her. His friends, Stacy, Max, and Eliot, are goofing off by throwing acorns at each other. He himself is just sitting by the picnic table near the tree. Not because he has no sense of adventure, but because of his ranking among them, when they even bother to remember he's a part of the group to begin with. Being the younger brother of two children is simultaneously a blessing and a curse. Sometimes Jack tags along, but even then, the others usually dictate what exactly that means.

“Truth or Dare.” Jane calls down from her branch. When there's no response, she picks an acorn from a higher branch and chucks it at Jack's head. “I said, truth or dare, Jack!” she repeats, louder this time.

Jack rubs his head where the acorn hit, which might've had something to do with his answer. “Truth” always sucks, because it leaves him at the mercy of any embarrassing question Jane could cook up. “Dare”, however, lets him at least keep his dignity intact, even if he's really just humoring her.

Thankfully, that's exactly what she wanted to hear, and Jack's just a little bit pleased with himself when it actually takes her a moment before she responds. She looks off into the distance, clearly contemplating what the perfect dare for Jack will be. The other three continue their ridiculous acorn game. Finally, Jane has her dare.

“Jack, your dare,” She starts, singling him out as the sole proprietor of it. He's already starting to regret his decision before he's even heard the dare itself. Jane pauses for dramatic effect, before she declares, “Your dare is to break into the Hunter Circus.”

Max gasps. Stacy and Eliot actually stop their acorn game to look up at Jane, clearly more intrigued by this dare.

Jane's smile widens, happy with the attention, as she adds, “And, just to sweeten it a little, you have to find something that's unmistakably from there, and bring it back.”

This dare isn't doable, and they all know it.

Jack looks off in the horizon, where the circus tents sit like an oasis in a desert. It's so full of life at night time, but during the day, it looks abandoned, no music, lights, or crowds. Just the tents, which actually look more like a faded bumblebee in the late afternoon sun. Nothing like it's supposed to look when it's open for business. It's probably also not that scary, Jack thinks.

“Fine. I'll do it.”  he says, jumping up from his seat at the picnic table. He immediately makes his way across the field, not bothering to wait to hear their replies, or even see their reactions, because this is one dare he doesn't want to be retracted. He's well aware that Jane was fully expecting him to chicken out. But other than an acorn that flies past his ear, there's nothing.

And for whatever reason he himself isn't entirely sure of, he's walking in a straight line towards the circus with a feeling of determination, this hungry need to be there.

It still looks exactly like it did the first time it came, when he was around 6.

It was in the exact same spot it is now, and anyone who didn't know better would think it never left. Like someone put an invisibility enchantment for the five years it took for it to return.

At only 6 years old, he wasn't even allowed to go. His parents thought he was too young, so Jack was resigned to looking at it from a distance, mesmerized by the tents and lights.

Foolishly, he'd been praying it would stay until he was deemed old enough, but it only stayed in Concord for two weeks, leaving Jack heartbroken at the missed opportunity.

But now, here it is. It only came back a few days ago, and it's still the talk of the town. Had the circus been here for longer, Jane definitely would've picked a different dare, never going for old news.

Jack had only truly experienced the circus last night, and it was unlike anything he'd ever seen or experienced. All the lights and costumes were so different, yet tailored to the individual. The circus was like he'd stepped into a completely different dimension, far away from the world he currently occupied.

Jack was expecting some kind of show where you sit and watch, and that's it. But his expectations weren't even remotely met. No, this circus encourages you to explore and discover.

Jack did his best to hit every stop he could, although he felt like the worst kind of newbie. He didn't even know where to start, and the signs advertising what lay inside did not do them justice. Every turn where he went down another path, more tents popped up, all with signs and their own mysteries.

One tent had acrobats, and Jack had spent much of his time staring up at them until he had to stop from the kink in his neck.

Another had a hall of mirrors, which all reflected hundreds of Jacks staring back at him, with matching dazed expressions.

And don't even get him started on the food. Apples dipped in chocolate so dark they're nearly black, but still remain crisp and sweet, and covered in chopped peanut M&Ms. Chocolate voodoo dolls with an impossibly light peanut butter filling, complete with an edible needle. Even the best coffee he'd ever had, even if he was a bit young.

It was all just so magical, like it could just go on forever. The pathways were winding, connecting to others, or turning right back to the courtyard.

Jack couldn't even try to explain everything he'd seen after he left. He could only say yes when he asked if he'd had fun, and even that felt like a serious understatement.

But despite that, he didn't get to stay as long as he would've wanted. If his parents had allowed him, he would've stayed all the way up until closing. But he had to go home after what felt like only a few short hours, with promises that he could go back the following weekend, which did nothing to reassure him at remembering how quickly it left the last time. Jack had wanted to march right back in the moment he'd walked out.

Now, Jack wonders if he'd actually said yes to the dare as an excuse to go back sooner than planned, even if it was during the day.

It takes Jack the better part of 10 minutes to get all the way across the field, and with every step he gets closer, the bigger and higher the tents seem to get, and the more his confidence starts to wane.

Already, he wonders if there's something on the ground he can bring back as proof without having to break in, when he's finally at the gates.

The gates are 3x taller than him, the letters on top spelling Le Cirque de la Chasse are nearly illegible without the night to light them up, all about the size of a medium squash, the curled iron surrounding the letters reminding him of long stems.

There's a very complicated lock on the gates, keeping it shut from the outside world, with a small sign that says,

“Opens at night. Closes come morning.”

in an impressive calligraphy, and below it, in tiny typed letters,

“Trespassers will be smote.”

Jack doesn't fully understand what the word, “smote” means, but he knows he probably doesn't want to find out what that looks like. The circus feels completely different during the day, it's quiet as a mouse. No music or noise, the only sounds to be heard the birds and a rustling of leaves from the trees surrounding the circus. It doesn't appear anyone is even here, like it's been abandoned. The smells are still there from the previous night, just much more watered down, the smell of chocolate and popcorn, along with the smoke from the bonfire.

Jack turns back to look behind him, across the field. His sister and friends are still in the tree, although from here they look like ants. No doubt they're watching him, so he walks around to the other side of the fence. Jack's no longer sure he even wants to go through with this dare, but if he manages it, he doesn't want people watching him.

The fence inside the gates mostly surrounds the very edges of the tents, so there's not really anywhere he can enter, so Jack keeps walking.

A few minutes after he loses sight of their picnic area, he finds a weak spot in the fence that's not necessarily up against a tent, but instead faces one of the many pathways, like a dark alley, wrapping around one side of a tent and disappearing when it turns a corner. If he was looking for a sign to follow this through, this is it.

Not only that, Jack realizes with a start that he actually does want to go inside, dare and all. He's genuinely curious to see what it looks like. And once again, that hunger he'd felt when he'd first taken the dare is back, urging him to keep going.

Then iron bars are completely smooth and thick, so Jack immediately rules out climbing the fence as a means of getting inside. Even if he'd gotten past the first few feet with nothing to rest his feet on, the iron curls go outward in swirls made of what can only be spikes. Even though he's not intimidated by them, he doesn't feel like cutting himself up over a dare.

But luckily, the fence was not built with pint sized trespassers in mind, because while the bars are definitely solid, they're also a good foot apart. And since Jack is pint sized, he'll have no problem squeezing through.

Jack can't help but still hesitate, even for a moment, but he knows now he has to do this. If he doesn't, he'll beat himself up over it if he doesn't at least try, even if he doesn't follow through on the dare.

He'd been hoping once he was actually inside, the place would feel like it's supposed to at night, but that's not the case. If there's any magic behind this place, he can't feel it at all.

It still looks completely abandoned, with not a worker or performer in sight. If he'd thought it was quiet before, it's even quieter now. He can't even hear the birds now, nor the leaves.

Jack's not sure where he should go, or what would work as proof. A quick survey of the area doesn't have anything, just the ground and the tents themselves. In the daylight, all the tents’ imperfections are noticeable, which makes Jack wonder just exactly how long this particular circus has been traveling, and where does it go once it's time in a particular city is done. One would think that it travels by train, like all the other circuses, but Jack has never seen one at the train station, and from the people he's talked to at the station, they haven't seen one either.

Jack turns right at the end of a passage, and finds a row of tents, all adorned with their signs advertising what lies inside. One reads **Flights of Fancy** , another one **Northern Lights** . Jack has to hold his breath when he passes the one that says **Supernatural Creatures and Monsters** , but he doesn't hear any noises from inside. There's still nothing worth taking to be found, only scraps of paper or a popcorn kernel, and he knows he could never get away with stealing a sign.

The slowly setting sun casts shadows across all the tents, stretching over the ground. Weirdly, the ground has been sprinkled with stripes of salt in some parts, and what looks like some really fine black sand in others. Jack can see the natural dirt where they've been kicked one too many times by countless feet. He wonders if it's someone's job to sprinkle it every night as he turns another corner, and because he's still looking at the ground, he nearly bumps into the girl.

She's smack dab in the middle of the path in the middle of the tents, like she's waiting for him. She's appears to be close to his age, and is wearing what has to be a costume, because they're a far cry from normal clothes. Black boots with fishnets, and a corner and skirt combo made to look steampunk, with a silver pocket watch dangling from the corset. Her entire costume is black, which makes her dark hair and skin somehow all the more darker.

“You shouldn't be here.” The dark haired girl says quietly. But she's doesn't sound upset or even surprised. Jack has to blink a few times before he recovers.

“I uh...I know.” he says, and he can't believe what an idiot he's being, but the girl just stares at him “I'm... sorry?” he says, which makes him sound like an even bigger idiot.

“I'd get out of here before you're caught if I were you.” the girl says, glancing behind her, but Jack can't see what she's looking at. “Which way did you come?”

“Back, uh…” Jack turns around, but can't remember which path he took, as the path turns in on itself and now he can't see any of the signs to know which ones he's seen. “I actually don't know.”

“No worries. Follow me.” The girl grabs his hand in her bare one and pulls him down one of the pathways. She doesn't say another word as they walk through the tents, but she does have him stop once they reach a corner and they just stand there for a minute. When Jack gets ready to ask what they're waiting for, she just gestures for him to be quiet, then continues walking.

“You can fit, right?” She asks, and Jack nods. She takes a sharp turn behind one tent, down a path Jack hadn't even seen, and there's his fence, along with a view of the field.

“This way.” The girl says. “You'll be fine.”

She helps Jack squeeze back through the bars, which are tighter in this particular part. When he's back on the outside, he turns to face her. “Thanks.”

“Your welcome.” The girl says. “But you should take more caution in the future. Nobody's supposed to come here in the daytime. It's tresspassing.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” Jack apologizes, embarrassed. “What exactly does smote mean?”

The girl smiles. “Well, in this case, it means a snap of the fingers and exploding.” She says. “But I don't think they'd really do that. At least, I don't think so.”

Then she turns and starts to go.

“Wait.” Jack says, though he's not sure why. The girl comes back anyway, and doesn't respond, just waits to hear his request. “I uh...I have to bring something back.” He admits, and immediately regrets it. The girls eyebrows furrow as she continues to stare at him.

“Something back?” She repeats.

“Uh...yeah.” Jack says, looking down at his scuffed shoes, and at her black boots on the other side of the fence. “It was a dare.” He adds, hoping she understands.

The girl smiles, bites her lip, looking thoughtful, then takes the pocket watch off the ring it was hanging from, and hands it to him. Jack hesitates.

“It's okay, take it.” She says. “I have plenty more.”

Jack takes the pocket watch from her and carefully puts it in his pocket.

“Thank you.” He says again.

“You're welcome, Jack.” The girl says, and this time when she turns away, he doesn't say anything, so she disappears back behind the corner of a tent.

Jack's still standing there for a while before he finally walks back across the field. Nobody's still by the tree when he makes it back, only a cluster of acorns, with the sun setting lower now.

He only makes it halfway back home when he realizes he never told the girl his name.


	11. Just Desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Mr. Novak's place, Dessert Dinners are a bit of a tradition. Gabriel came up with the concept on a complete whim, from a combination of restlessness and his hours as theater director, along with a taste for whimsy rather than the prim and proper.

_Ohio, February 2002_

At Mr. Novak's place, Dessert Dinners are a bit of a tradition. Gabriel came up with the concept on a complete whim, from a combination of restlessness and his hours as theater director, along with a taste for whimsy rather than the prim and proper. There's plenty of places to get desserts in town, of course, but Gabriel wanted to bring something that had never been done before.

So he started throwing together these crazy multi course dinners, first one served at midnight. In fact, he's worked it out so that no one has a plate until the big grandfather clock he owns begins to chime. He always felt that was the ceremonial aspect of the night. In the beginning, they were just small get-togethers with friends and colleagues. But overtime, they've changed and evolved, to the point where they've become more frequent, as well as more elaborate, until finally, they'd gained a reputation with an underground following. If you know what buttons to push, an invite could open doors previously closed.

But because they have such a reputation, they've also become more selective. Occasionally there will be as many as 30 people at one, but more often than not, the average guest count is often only 5. 12 or 15, however, is the standard. But regardless of how many bodies are there, the cuisine itself is always something worth showing up for.

Gabriel always omits the menu for these events. Similar dinner parties, if one even exists, would have a menu laid out for the guests, with a detailed description for the guests to read, or even as simple as the dishes name.

But Dessert Dinners are already mysterious without one, so Gabriel has found omitting a menu only magnifies that. Meal after meal is brought to the table, some offering a simple palette cleanser such as a refreshing sorbet that nicely accompanies the dish. Others are the dish themselves, such as a baked apple filled with bourbon and cinnamon. Still others are wrapped in the most heavenly pastry dough and smothered in their own glazes, often concealing the contents to leave guests wondering which is supposed to be the sweet one, only to realize they still can't decide.

If a patron was brave enough to ask what was in them, be it just a seasoning or the entire dish, no answer they will get will be satisfying, but the dishes themselves always make up for that in spades.

Gabriel will often just say that the recipes behind the dishes, “should lie with the chefs that made them, rather than shared and ruined.” A guest, upon hearing that, will look back at the plate in front of them, and decide regardless if they’ll never know exactly what's in it, the dish is still as amazing as before they enquired, and continue to wonder as they keep eating.

You'd think there wouldn't be time to talk with all this delicious food, but thankfully, that's solved by the allotted time in between courses.

Truthfully, Gabriel doesn't really need to know every single detail of what goes in a dish. He'd rather enjoy it as a whole rather than pick it apart.

Since these dinners are called Dessert Dinners, you'd think there wouldn't be a dessert course, but you'd be wrong. If you thought the ones accompanying the other courses were amazing, the actual desserts themselves are truly otherworldly. All the flavors are used at some point, from the classics of vanilla, chocolate and butterscotch, to all types of berries and cream. Cakes are a guaranteed staple, much bigger than just seven tiers, baked pastries like edible clouds. Honey drizzled over nuts and figs. Sugar pulled or blown into the most elaborate art. Many who see them almost don't want to dig in, so impressed by the skill that had to have gone into them, but they always manage, because they just have to.

Gabriel never lets his guests meet the chefs, which has led to speculation on who exactly they are and why. One rumor is that Gabriel bought them out of their old jobs, leaving them no choice but to cater to his every whim. Another one says that the food isn't even made on the premises, instead it's made elsewhere and brought here before the guests arrive. And that rumor inevitably leads to a discussion on how that would even be humanly possible with every dish needing to be at a certain temperature, but regardless of how they try to puzzle it out, no theory they come up with was satisfying enough, to the point where they get too hungry to care.

Regardless, the food is always anything the guests can talk about for days. The decor in the dining room Gabriel uses, or rooms when the guest list is bigger than expected, is as extraordinary as the rest of the house he lives in, covered in crazy colors and filled with antiques from all around the world. The entire place is lit with a chandelier and candles, allowing the guests to bask in the ambience.

There's also entertainment, be it dancers from a ballet company, magicians, or even musicians. When the gathering is more intimate, Gabriel sets up his personal pianist, just a well aged old man who plays the music without fail and doesn't speak to anyone.

These dinner parties are on the surface just like any other, but the combined ambiance and late hour makes them unique, something people can honestly they'd never seen before. Gabriel's always had a taste for such things, and his background in the theater allows him to understand the power of atmosphere.

But on this particular night, the Dessert Dinner is comparatively intimate, with only 5 people to get an invite. But tonight's dinner isn't your typical social engagement.

The first one to show after the pianist is Anna Milton, a ballerina in her prime that had been one of Gabriel's theater students before moving onto the ballet. He'd called her the Swan Queen for years before he'd received a playbill that cast her as such. She's an energetic young woman, all of the grace she'd had as his student still there, despite it being years later, along with her beautiful sense of style. All of that is the reason she's even here tonight; both her sense of style and eye for choreography are highly coveted in the ballet world. This has given her the ability to live comfortably, with everyone wanting her either in the show or behind the scenes making their costumes, thus paying her handsomely for her services.

The woman is a magician on and off the stage with both her dancing and talents with clothing, all the papers are fond of saying. Anna brushes all these comments off, although she often jokes that if he'd let her, she could make Gabriel the best drag queen to grace the stage since RuPaul.

On this night, Anna wears a green dress with hand embroidered lace on the bodice, as well as long sleeves that cover her arms. Her gorgeous red hair is down, but crimped and has two pearled combs in it. She doesn't wear any jewelry on her neck, but her earrings are a cluster of diamonds. One would think it would all be too much, but somehow it all comes together for one beautiful mermaid look.

Castiel is an architect, and the second guest with an invite to arrive. He looks completely out of place at this party, and looks like he'd be more suited in a cubicle somewhere, with his trench coat and suit, as well as his blue tie, and messy dark hair. He's known Gabriel nearly his whole life, and has offered his insight on architecture when the situation called for it. But still, the invite took him by surprise; as mentioned before, he's a bit socially awkward, so he typically doesn't get invites like this often, but he felt like it would be rude to turn this one down. Besides, he's always been curious to know how well off Gabriel is, as well as get a peek inside the mansion he now lives in, which is a legend among the people he converses with about interior design.

Within moments, Castiel finds himself holding a glass of sparkling wine and exchanging words with Anna. He finds he's actually enjoying himself at this unusual function, and decides to try to make it a habit from now on.

The mother and daughter team of Ellen and Jo Harvelle are next. These women are both Jacks-of-all-trades, able to do everything from shooting a gun to recall obscure facts from really old texts. Once they were a bit more normal, but that's something they only discuss when they're feeling sentimental over losing Richard, Ellen's husband and Jo's father. But they're still on call for advice on anything. If you're the type looking how to kill things that shouldn't exist, these women are who you talk to. Their secret, which they've never divulged to Gabriel, is that they were hunters for years before stepping back to just offer advice, so they've seen quite a few things in their lives.

It was hard at first, but eventually they found a way to enjoy helping other hunters with their problems, people who have better reasons for continuing to hunt than they do. It's more fulfilling, they tell their friends.

They couldn't look more different. Ellen has chestnut hair, while Jo has long blonde tresses. Neither of them are in dresses, having expressed that they're not their style, so they're dressed in clothes that are still tasteful, and they look as nice as anyone there.

Anna greets them with the disinterest she reserves for people who don't quite fit the norm, but she definitely warms up to them when they compliment her entire ensemble. Castiel finds himself liking them as well, even if their Southern accents are a bit hard to understand.

The last guest shows up just before the meal's about to begin, just as the other guests are sitting at the table and the wine is pouring. He's a tall man with rough features, making him look older than he actually is. He wears an old leather jacket that he begrudgingly takes off at the door out of respect, and the Harvelles immediately know him as John Winchester. He gives a polite nod at the other guests, but otherwise says nothing.

Gabriel joins them then, followed closely by his assistant and John's son, Dean, a young man with amazing green eyes and spiky hair, who Jo can admit she's given more than one glance.

“All of you are here for a reason.” Gabriel says, “As I'm sure you've guessed. However, it's strictly business, and I think you'll find it much easier to discuss business on a full stomach, so after the actual dessert, we'll get right to it.” He waves down a waiter, and as the clock strikes midnight, the first course is out.

They all make pleasant conversation as the wine is being poured for their courses. Naturally, all the women are much more talkative than the men. In fact, John Winchester hardly says two words. Although a few have bumped into each other before, by the time the main course is finished, you'd think they'd been childhood best friends.

When dessert is finally finished a few minutes before two in the morning, Gabriel stands up and clears his throat.

“If you would, please join me in my study for coffee and whiskey, so we can get this business thing going.” he says. He nods at Dean, who slips away to rejoin them upstairs in the study, arms stuffed with very big notebooks and and rolls of paper. Drinks are poured, and the guests settle themselves on couches and armchairs around the grand fireplace. After Gabriel takes a bite out of a candy bar, Gabriel starts his speech, punctuating it with every chew.

“I have each and every one of you here because there's a project in the works that I'm going to start. Some kind of endeavor, one I'm sure all of you will definitely want to be a part of, and in fact, can actually help to make happen. Your cooperation and assistance, which is entirely voluntary, will be much appreciated and you'll all receive reasonable compensation.” He says.

“Why don't you stop tiptoeing around the subject and tell us what you've got up your sleeve?” Anna says. “Some of us aren't exactly patient.” Jo giggles at that.

“Of course, Anna.” Gabriel nods in her direction. “What I've got up my sleeve, as you put it, is a circus.”

“A circus? Like a carnival?” Castiel asks, definitely confused.

“More.” Gabriel says. "More than a circus, even. A circus like this will have never been done before. We wouldn't be limited to one tent, we'd have countless, all with their own exhibition. None of your typical circus animals either, like tigers or elephants, and definitely no clowns. No, what we're going for is way more classy than that. Nothing can look average. This is going to be completely different, and so unique, a feast for the soul. I want a completely immersive experience. Anything people have previously thought about the circus, we're going to abandon it and replace it with something new, something better.” He gestures to Dean, who spreads out the rolls of paper on the table, holding down the corners with paperweights.

On the paper are sketches with notes. There's only fragments: a ring of tents, a central courtyard. Lists of ideas for attractions or acts are written down on the margins, some crossed out or circled. Fortune teller. Acrobats. Conjurer. Contortionist. Dancers. Fire artists.

The Harvelle women and Castiel survey the sketches, reading the notes as Gabriel keeps talking. Anna smiles, but stays seated, sipping her drink. John Winchester doesn't move, his expression completely stoic and unchanged.

“It's still just a concept for now, so that's why I've asked you all here, to help me bring it to life. It needs its own unique style and panache. The very structure needs to scream ingenuity. It needs to be simultaneously mysterious and astounding. If you don't agree, you're welcome to leave, but please, let's keep this between us. For now, I want to keep this undisclosed. At this stage, it's all very sensitive, you understand.” He takes a bigger bite of his candy bar, chewing it slowly before he finishes, “If we do this right, we'll be doing the equivalent of birthing a child.”

The room is in complete silence when he finishes. Only the crackling fire makes noise for several moments as the guests all look at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move.

“May I see a pencil?” Castiel asks. Dean hands one over, and Castiel starts to draw, taking the original sketch and adding complexity to it.

They all are still there until before dawn, and when they finally part ways, there's three times the paper used up on diagrams, plans and notes than there had been at the beginning of the night, scattered and pinned down all around the study, like a hunter’s bulletin board.


	12. Your Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not long before the story of the great Samuel Campbell, one of the best hunters of their time, died of a brain aneurysm in his cabin, on March 15th, circulates around the hunter's circle.

_Indiana, March 2002_

It's not long before the story of the great Samuel Campbell, one of the best hunters of their time, died of a brain aneurysm in his cabin, on March 15th, circulates around the hunter's circle.

Many talk about his methods and his legacy for quite a while. The age is an obvious joke, a detail most don't give a second look. An even smaller amount of hunters even bother to remember he has a grandson he's remembered by, a seventeen year old boy named Sam Winchester. Naturally, Samuel already had everything arranged, down to who he wanted to build the pyre, and light the match. No other condolences were made, as Samuel always preferred to work alone.

Instead of cards and flowers, hunters just show up without warning, seeing if they can try and take his things for themselves, the tiny cabin that's already cramped from a the stuff he'd collected over the years. The smell of dust makes Sam cough, and when he can't stand it, turns it to sulfur, so as to scare the hunters away.

But on days where he can bear it, Sam just stays out of the way and lets the hunters take what they want. He'd already gone through everything and had hidden everything he'd wanted for himself, so he supposes he's not any better than the rest of them.

Naturally, all these hunters are people he's never met before, some possibly not even from America. They all offer condolences when they see Sam, but really, it's obvious that they're just here for Samuel's stuff. Some actually say that they never knew Samuel Campbell even had a grandson. Others have fond memories of him, describing a very well behaved little kid that Sam supposes he was at that age, even if he can't remember it. Some even mention to Sam they have a kid that they would love to set him up with.

Those in particular Sam excuses himself to his room, not coming out until he knows they're gone. 

“I already got someone.” Sam says to no one, twisting the silver ring he uses for both hunting and to cover up an old, distinctive scar.

But then, he realizes in the hustle to leave as quickly as possible, a paper fell out of one of Samuel's things.

It's not even in an envelope, just a folded piece of paper that's dated after Samuel's death date, and yet it's still addressed to Samuel himself, with only two words on it,

“Your move.”

Sam checks the rest of the paper for any kind of indicator who the sender is, but finds nothing. Not even a return address.

Sam finds himself rereading those two words repeatedly, not sure if what he's feeling is dread or excitement of knowing the game is close to starting.

Forgetting about the other hunters, Sam takes the paper and leaves the main room, walking towards the room that Sam's made it a habit of not entering except out of necessity. He pulls a a single key from his pocket and unlocks the door, in order to open Samuel Campbell's old bedroom, which has all the windows open and uncovered.

“What is this?” Sam asks, holding out the paper in front of him as he comes in.

The person by the window barely turns. The sunlight hits his body, but he doesn't move or flinch. His shoulder doesn't twitch, nor does his head move in Sam's direction, the rest of him is struggling to move, like he's having a seizure.

Whatever is left of Samuel's spirit inside his body sees the note, and laughs like he was just told the funniest joke in the world.


	13. Scaretale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no entertainment scheduled tonight, not even Gabriel's pianist, but regardless, entertainment finds them anyway.

_Ohio, September 2002_

Once a month, there's regularly scheduled Dessert Dinners, more often than not referred to as Circus Dinners by the invited guests. They're always a combination of a social gathering and business.

Anna Milton is always there, and one or both of the Harvelle women is a guarantee. Castiel shows up as often as he's able, as he's always needed elsewhere and can't attend as many as the rest.

Rarely does John Winchester show up. Jo once makes the comment that they seem to go more smoothly when John is there, even if he only ever offers the occasional safety regulation.

But this particular evening, it's an all-girls night.

“Where's Castiel?” Anna asks after both Harvelle women arrive by themselves, since he's known for showing up with them.

“Germany.” Ellen and Jo say immediately, which makes Gabriel laugh as he hands them their champagne.

“He's looking for a really talented clockmaker.” Ellen says on her own. “Something about commissioning something to really help the circus stand out. He seemed really excited about it.”

There's no entertainment scheduled tonight, not even Gabriel's pianist, but regardless, entertainment finds them anyway.

She gives her name Lisa Braeden, but she won't answer if it's her married name, though she doesn't bear a wedding ring.

She's built, but flexible. Her black hair is knotted and twisted into a complicated updo and pinned to her head. She wears a long coat, but it hangs on her like a cloak, giving it an elegant look as she moves.

Dean leaves her in the foyer, patiently explaining the situation to Gabriel, and that inevitably leads to everyone coming in to see what, or rather who, is causing all the commotion.

“State your business, ma'am.” Gabriel inquires, intrigued. Weirder things have happened at his little mansion than an uninvited guest, and even then, the guest is still welcomed.

“Thought I'd show you what I can do.” Is the only reply, and she doesn't elaborate further as to how she's come to be joining them on this night, but her smile that comes with that vagueness is a genuine one that reminds one of growing up with their mother. Both Ellen and Jo ask Gabriel to let her stay.

“Well, we we're just about to sit down for our meal…” Gabriel says with a frown, “But sure. Make yourself at home. Come join us so you can do... whatever it is that brought you here.”

Lisa curtseys, her smile returning, and while everyone else files into the dining room, Dean takes her coat, hesitating for a moment when he sees what she has on underneath it.

She's wearing a bejeweled red bodice with fishnets on both her arms and legs, all of which would definitely not be considered modest or appropriate, but this crowd is more open minded. It's more a costume than evening wear.

And it's actually not the costume itself that catches Dean's attention, but her skin.

At first, she only looks pale, possibly due to anemia or some other illness. It's impossible to tell without outright asking.

Upon closer inspection, it's discovered that she's not just pale, she's covered in scars. But these scars are not from burns or stabbings. No, these were intentional, having burned protective sigils and runes from nearly every country onto her body, ranging from Egyptian hieroglyphs to Celtic tailsmans. There's so many of them, and yet they're all so close together, it's nearly impossible to see what her skin looks like underneath. Her body is a living breathing cage for the soul that resides in it.

Lisa catches Dean looking, and though he doesn't ask her about them, she just says, “They're part of who I was, and who I can no longer be.”, then she smiles, and walks into the dining room, leaving Dean to puzzle that one sentence by himself, right when the grandfather clock begins to chime, as well as the first course coming from the kitchen.

She kicks off her shoes and leaves them by the doorway and walks barefoot to right by the piano, where the light from both the chandeliers and the candles is at its best.

At first, she stands completely still, while the diners look on with mild curiosity, and in moments, it becomes absolutely clear what her means of entertainment is.

Lisa Braeden is a contortionist.

Other contortionists are either front or back benders, depending on where the flexibility of their spines are, and plan their routines accordingly. However, Lisa Braeden is one of the rare exceptions who can flex her spine in both directions equally.

She moves with the grace only Anna has seen in all her time in the ballet world, a fact that she's all too eager to whisper to the Harvelle women before Lisa has even begun her most impressive feats.

“Could you ever bend like that?” Jo asks her, as Lisa pulls up a leg as high as it can go, well over her head.

“I wouldn't be here to see this if I could.” Anna replies, shaking her head.

Lisa has the control of a well trained performer. She knows exactly how far to push, when to hold her position and pause. Although her body twists into positions that shouldn't be humanly possible, she's always smiling.

She's so enticing, the audience even forgets both their conversation and meal as they continue to watch.

Ellen remarks to her daughter afterwards that she swears she heard music, although there's no source for it to have come from, other than the movement of Lisa's costume against her skin and the crackling fire.

“This is what I've been trying to tell you people!” Gabriel exclaims, smacking a hand on the table, immediately recapturing everyone's attention. Jo almost drops her fork, which she had been holding so lazily, but manages to grab it before it lands on her plate of... something delicious, is all she can remember, but Lisa continues her routine, completely unfazed, but her smile definitely grows an inch or two.

“This?” Anna asks.

“This!” Gabriel repeats, gesturing to Lisa. “This is exactly the kind of sweetness I've been craving for our circus! Amazing, yet unusual. Intriguing while still classy. There's no mistaking it. Her coming here tonight was fate. She's going to be a part of it, that's all there is to it. Dean, grab her a seat.”

Soon, Lisa has her own spot at the table; although she's still smiling, she's definitely confused as she eats her portion of the meal.

The following conversation is more creative manipulation rather than an outright offer, although there's several moments where Anna manages to segue the conversation to ballet and fashion, as well as mythology.

After five courses and two bottles of white wine, Lisa allows them to persuade her to saying yes to performing in a circus still in the planning stages.

“Then it's settled.” Gabriel says. “We've got a contortionist, that's all we need for that department. It's a good start.”

“Just her?” Ellen asks. “We can find more than one, put them all in one tent, like the acrobats.”

“Gobbledygook.” Gabriel replies. “Why have a bunch of amateurs when we can have the best of the best? She'll have her own showcase, right in the middle of the courtyard. Or somewhere else.”

The matter is dropped for the moment, and once dessert is served and drinks are being poured, the subject goes back to strictly circus business.

Lisa leaves her business card with Dean as she leaves, and soon enough, she becomes the main entertainment at the Circus Dinners, whether she performs before or after meals, so as to not be a distraction.

She remains Gabriel's favorite, most referenced staple of the circus, truly the heart of what the circus is supposed to be.


	14. Clocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel asks him if he's be willing to take on a big commission. Donatello, as he prefers to be called, is always busy with commissions, and tells Castiel as much by pointing to a shelf where several works in progress are featured, anything from your garden variety cuckoo clock to the grandest grandfather clocks the country has seen in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I described a clock truly worthy of both the Night Circus and Supernatural. I put so much time and effort into making sure I covered all the bases.

_Munich, 2002_

Mr. Donatello Redfield has unexpected company in his workshop in Munich, a strange man that goes only by Castiel. Castiel informs him that he's been trying to track him down for some time, upon seeing many of his featured clocks for sale, and was pointed in the right direction by an enthusiastic shopkeeper.

Castiel asks him if he'd be willing to take on a big commission. Donatello, as he prefers to be called, is always busy with commissions, and tells Castiel as much by pointing to a shelf where several works in progress are featured, anything from your garden variety cuckoo clock to the grandest grandfather clocks the country has seen in years.

“I see you don't fully grasp what I'm asking, Mr. Redfield.” Castiel tells him. “It's a showcase piece, something to intrigue people as to what lies beyond it. Your clocks fit the bill, but what I need is something the world has truly never seen. Your Magnum Opus, if you will.”

Not sure exactly how this man knows about his love for Renaissance art, Donatello decides to take it on anyway. He asks for details, little things that absolutely need to be in the clock. He's met with slight confusion with the answers he receives. There's only a slight size constraint, but the clock will still be fairly large. The commission absolutely has to be painted in black, white, and silver. The requested metals are bronze, silver, iron, and if he can make it happen, even gold. All on the same clock. Donatello has never done such a thing before. Individually, sure. Hundreds of them. But all the different metals coming together on one clock? He's still not sure if it can be done. Beyond those limitations, the creative side is up to him. Artistic license, Castiel tells him. When asked for a specific theme, “Supernatural” is the only word Donatello gets.

Finally, Donatello says yes, and they shake hands to confirm, and a few days later, Donatello receives a fat envelope filled with large wads of cash, an paper with the requested completion date, which is still months away, as well as an address in Ohio as the delivery address.

Along with this envelope are several books, and a look inside them tells Donatello exactly what kinds of Supernatural things they're looking for. He's definitely glad for the help.

It takes a good chunk of those months he has for Donatello to finish the clock. He can't even work on his other pieces, it's like God himself is willing him to create this Magnum Opus with all of his heart, soul, and focus. It would drive anyone else crazy, but because he's being paid so well, he doesn't have much to really worry about. Weeks alone are spent on putting together the design and function. He even hires an assistant to help him carve the woodwork, but all the finer details, he insists on doing himself. Donatello lives for the details, believes they're what give the whole piece its character. He bases the entire thing on that one word, Supernatural, along with the reference books he was sent.

The finished product is beyond even the word supernatural.

At a glance, it looks like just any other clock, painted pure white with a bronze face and, weirdly enough, an iron pendulum. You can tell immediately that this wasn't carved by some amateur, with all means of sigils carved into the edges, a curiously shaped pentacle painted on the face.

Even more curious is the hands of the clock themselves. They're not hands at all. One hand looks like an ordinary hunting knife with a curved, serrated-edged blade and antler handle, possibly from some kind of deer, however upon closer inspection, very tiny symbols can be seen engraved along the thin blade.

The other hand is a long, silver, triple-edged dagger; if it were real, a cross section of the blade would be a three pointed star.

The second hand isn't a knife or sword at all, but a gun. And not just any gun, it's the Colt, which according to the heavy research Donatello did, is a supernatural revolver believed to have been made by Samuel Colt himself. The second hand is so small, and yet Donatello put in as much details as he had with the rest of the clock. Just because it’s small, doesn't mean it doesn't matter. The Colt itself is replica Colt Paterson 1836 ball and cap gun modified to fire metallic cartridges. On the barrel of the gun is inscribed a Latin quote from Psalm XXIII:4, "non timebo mala", meaning "I will fear no evil". On the handle is a carving of a pentagram, with much of the finish removed to give it an aged appearance.

But besides those details, it looks for all intents and purposes to be just a clock.

But that appearance alone is because it hasn't been wound up. Before the seconds start ticking, the iron pendulum swings slow and steadily. And then, right before your eyes, it begins to change.

Said changes are small, almost unnoticeable. First, the face itself changes, taking the pentacle away and replacing it with a sort of pentagram, called the Key of Solomon.

Then, an angel flies across it, sword in hand as if he's about to smite the wicked, disappearing once he reaches the the opposite side. Oddly enough, the angel looks extremely similar to the Mr. Castiel that gave Donatello the commission, dressed in a trenchcoat, suit and tie.

Meanwhile, the body of the clock expands and contracts, like a puzzle that's slowly coming apart, but with all the grace of a carefully timed performance.

It takes several hours alone to get this effect, and the result is well worth it.

The clock's face is ever changing by the hour, from the original flaming pentacle, to the Key of Solomon, to many more, among them as follows, with Donatello taking care to make sure he got the names right.

An angel banishing sigil.

Azazel's sigil.

The horn of Gabriel.

A Zoroastrian symbol.

A reaper trap.

And finally, Metatron's cube.

But no matter what symbol is displayed, the face never stops displaying the numbers that track the time.

The body itself, which all this time was still expanding, is now covered in stripes of black, white and silver. In fact, they're not even close to just pieces either, they're tiny moving figurines.

Exotic plants one would expect a witch to keep.

The Book of the Damned, a well aged book stuffed with pages that not only turn, the pages themselves appear to be not of paper at all, as they feel leathery to the touch.

A furry werewolf growls as it darts in between the parts of the now visible clockwork.

A small figurine strapped to a gurney in distress as another figurine with a pig's face prepares to stab its victim.

Coffee pots that pour into coffee mugs with steam rising from the cups as the seconds go by.

A mak'lak box, a sort of metal coffin covered in symbols and sigils, all for the purpose of keeping what's inside in, judging by the slight rattling, but when it does open, a blinding light is revealed before closing again.

A zombie like creature eating a corpse from a dug up grave.

An entire poker game plays.

Gears that keep the clock moving and functioning are made of the purest silver, all engraved with even more symbols, all of which only appear once, to avoid delving into kitschy territory.

At the heart, where a clock maker would normally put a cuckoo bird, is the Impala.

Even Donatello doesn't understand why he chose it as its heart, only knowing somewhere deep inside him it was the only thing he could put there to truly make it the Magnum Opus.

It's a sleek black design, from the 1967 version of the car, with two small people inside, opening and shutting doors, with the figurines getting out. As the clock chimes, the figurines check their watches on the even hours, and check their phones and answer them on the odd, then get back in, as the doors close and the Impala retreats back inside the clock for another hour. A small backdrop accompanies the car, giving the effect that it's moving across a never ending highway, sometimes changing from night to day, always in conjunction with actual night and day.

Until midnight, when all that can be seen in the backdrop is millions of stars, and instead of getting back in the car, the figurines move to the car's hood, sitting down, and they take turns sipping from miniature bottles in rhythm with the seconds on the clock.

After midnight, the clock begins to retreat back to its original form, closing in on itself and becoming the traditional clock facade. The face returns to that flaming pentacle and the angel returns. The Impala and figurines stay right where they are the entire time, until finally the Impala and figures retreat back into the clock, the last thing to be seen that reminds you of what lies inside.

By noon, it's back to a normal clock, barely a hint of Donatello's Magnum Opus.

A few weeks later when Donatello ships the clock, he receives a letter from Castiel, offering his utmost thanks for sending something that was beyond even a Magnum Opus, and marvelling at all the intricate details. The letter also includes more wads of cash, enough to where he could retire comfortably, knowing his Magnum Opus has finally been shared with the world, if he wanted to. But he doesn't, instead choosing to continue making his clocks in his workshop in Munich.

He doesn't give it another thought, other than occasionally when he wonders if the commissioner put it to good use, or where exactly it went. Usually the thought only comes up when he's working on a similar clock, if you could even come close to comparing any clock to the _Soprannaturale_ clock, as he was fond of calling it when he was working on the more difficult parts of its structure, still not sure if he could make it into the promised Magnum Opus.

Beyond that one letter, Donatello doesn't hear from Castiel again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only use visual aids for the descriptions that need them. Others, I'd hope, do fine on their own.


	15. Never Believe It's Not So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're all too nervous to talk to each other beforehand, just patiently wait for them to be called inside by the number they were given upon arrival and confirmation they were here for the auditions. But they can't help but steal glances at the young man they swear none of them have ever seen on campus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get the chapter that finally puts Sam on the board! Let's just see what our sweet, brave Sammy can do!

_Ohio, April 2003_

A bunch of locally known illusionists show up for an audition notice posted on Springfield University's theater board, all seated in chairs right outside the auditorium. Beautiful gowns and designer suits, all with either a handkerchief hidden on them or their dress’ bodice rigged especially for a trick. Some wear a cape or carry a trunk, others bring animals for their act or a wizard’s wand.

They're all too nervous to talk to each other beforehand, just patiently wait for them to be called inside by the number they were given upon arrival and confirmation they were here for the auditions. But they can't help but steal glances at the young man they swear none of them have ever seen on campus.

A few thought perhaps he was another illusionists’ assistant, but he waits in his own chair just like the rest of them, with his own slip of paper, number 52.

He's not even close to looking like the rest of them. He doesn't even appear to have anything for his act besides his person. He's dressed in a white suit with charcoal trim.

A head of brown locks falls a few inches shy of his neck, choosing not to wear a hat or even pull back his hair. His face betrays the innocent child he had to have been once, in the softness of his eyes and the slight part of his lips, despite the fact that he's definitely too old to be considered just another boy. But nobody can quite pinpoint his actual age, and nobody wants to come off as rude and ask him themselves. He doesn't start a conversation with any of them, despite the not so subtle glances and even one or two blatant stares.

One by one, every illusionists number gets called by a man with a clipboard and a notebook who guides them backstage and helps them get their act set up, and one by one, after their acts are through, they're escorted back out. Some only last about 5 minutes, others last what seems like half an hour. Those with higher numbers start to get nervous in their seats as they wait for the man with the clipboard to show up once more and call out their number.

Then the last illusionist enters the auditorium, only to have him storm right back out rather quickly, clearly pissed and not even bothering to sit back down, just walking right out of the hallway. The other illusionists are still staring after him when the guy with the clipboard makes his reappearance, nods, and clears his throat to regain their attention.

“52.” Dean says, actually doing a double take as he checks the number.

All eyes are on that strange young man as he finally stands up to follow.

Dean watches him approach, slightly confused, but very soon, that confusion is gone, having been replaced by something else entirely.

He could tell from the young man's spot that he was handsome for his age, but when he's actually close enough for him to look straight into those hazel eyes, the handsomeness, from the soft cheek bones to the strong muscles in his arms, is so much more than that.

He's luminous. For a moment, while they're stuck looking at each other, Dean's actually forgotten for a moment what his job is, or why this young man is suddenly handing him a slip of paper with the number 52 on it, a number 52 he himself wrote on the paper and gave to him himself.

“This...way.” Dean manages to get out as he takes the number back and holds open the door for him. The young man gives a polite nod in acknowledgement, and the hallway is immediately lit up with loud whispering before the door closes behind them.

The auditorium is massive and exquisite, with the most comfortable seats for the audience. They're even split into sections; orchestra,  mezzanine, and balcony, spreading out from the empty stage in a cascade of color coded seats. It's empty, aside from the two people seated in which Gabriel believes to be the best in the entire room. Gabriel Novak sits with his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. Anna Milton sits on the right of him, checking her watch while trying her damndest not to yawn.

Dean reappears from the hallway with the young man in the white suit following behind him. Dean gestures for the young man to make his way to the stage, unable to stop openly staring at him as he announces him to the two person audience.

“Number 52.” Dean says, before descending the stairs near the door and hovering close to the stage, pen posed and ready to go.

Anna looks up and smiles, setting her arm back down, now more interested.

“What exactly is this supposed to be?” Gabriel asks, not really expecting an answer. The young man doesn't respond.

“This is number 52.” Dean repeats, checking his notes to make sure he didn't make a mistake.

“I'm sorry, young man, but we're auditioning illusionists.” Gabriel says, raising his voice so the young man can hear him. “You know, magicians, sorcerers, and such. We don't need assistants.”

“I am an illusionist, Mr. Novak.” The young man says. His voice is young and steady. “I came for the auditions.”

“I see.” Gabriel says, frowning as he takes in the young man's appearance from head to toe. He stands perfectly still, like a statue, like he was counting on that reaction.

“Something the matter?” Anna asks.

“Not entirely sure he's gonna fit the bill.” Gabriel says, looking at the young man thoughtfully.

“After all that gushing you did over the contortionist?”

Gabriel flinches, still looking at the young man who, while no doubt handsome, doesn't appear to have anything particularly appealing about him.

“Really, Gabriel,” Anna says, seeing right through him. “At least give him a chance to show us what he can do before shooting him down because you can't sleep with him.”

“But he has long sleeves, making any sleight of hand obvious.” he complains.

At this, the young man unbuttons his suit jacket and drops it on the floor by his feet. The sleeveless vest underneath is also charcoal, with a white strapped undershirt underneath that, leaving his arms completely exposed, save for a black cord with a gold charm that looks to be some sort of horned amulet around his neck. He wears no gloves either. Anna gives Gabriel a pointed stare at this, which prompts Gabriel to sigh and concede.

“Fine.” Gabriel says. “On with the show.” He makes a flippant gesture at Dean.

“Right away, sir.” Dean says, turning back to address the young man. “We have a few questions first, before you demonstrate your act. First off, your name?”

“Sam Campbell.”

Anyone who wasn't paying attention would've missed the slight flinch as Dean writes down the answer.

“S-stage name?” He asks.

“Don’t have one.” Sam says. Dean writes this down as well.

“And where have you performed as an illusionist before?”

“I have never performed as an illusionist before.”

At this, Gabriel moves to ask him to leave, but Anna stops him.

“Then who trained you?” Dean asks.

“My grandfather, Samuel Campbell.” Sam answers. He pauses for a moment before adding, “Although you might've seen one of his seminars.”

Dean drops his pen, shaken.

“Samuel Campbell?” Anna leans forward, staring at Sam as though she's now seeing someone completely new to her. “Your grandfather is Samuel Campbell?”

“Was.” Sam clarifies. “He...died a year ago.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Gabriel says, now removing his feet from the chair in front of him. “But, I'm sorry for this, who exactly is Samuel Campbell?”

“Only one of the most famous hunters of his generation.” Anna says. “Used to sneak into one of his seminars whenever he was in my city, years ago. Absolutely amazing, stunned the audience every time. Never seen anyone come up with cures like him, ever.”

“He definitely would've been flattered to hear that, ma'am.” Sam says, his eyes lingering towards the back of the stage.

“I told him myself, though he hasn't had a seminar in awhile now. Had a few drinks with him a few years ago, and he kept going on and on about needing to learn how to push the limits, so they can find something even more extraordinary. In fact, Gabriel, when you first told me about this circus, I was surprised Samuel didn't come up with it himself. Cause I know he would've wanted to be a part of this. That's just too bad.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Well, as you said, on with the show.” She says, leaning back in her seat, with Gabriel following suit and now looking at Sam with just mild curiosity.

Dean, once again with his pen in hand, returns to his questionnaire.

“Can-can you perform without a stage?”

“Yes.” Sam says.

“Can an audience see your illusions from all angles?”

Sam smiles, “You need an illusionist that can work the crowd?” He asks Gabriel. He nods. “I see.” Sam says. Then, in a move so fast they all could've sworn he didn't even move, he picks up his jacket and throws it into the audience, but instead of landing on one of the many seats, it swoops upward, folding itself. Before they all can even register what just happened, the pure white coat has turned into the softest white feathers, delicate flapping wings, and none of them watching could tell exactly when it's a fully formed Dove and not even a tailcoat anymore. The dove flies over the seats and up into the balcony seats, where it flies in lazy figure eights.

“Now that's impressive.” Anna says.

“Unless he had that delicate thing hidden in that tiny tailcoat.” Gabriel mutters. Onstage, Sam moves across the stage, closer to Dean.

“Mind if I borrow that?”” Sam asks Dean, gesturing to the notebook. Dean hesitates for a moment before handing it over. “Thanks.” Sam says, moving back to center stage.

He doesn't even look at it before he throws the notebook up in the air, where it turns in all manner of ways to make the pages fan out, and the blur of the fluttering pages suddenly becomes a black raven flapping its wings and immediately taking flight in its own figure eights, flying opposite the dove, the perfect yin and yang.

“Aha!” Gabriel exclaims, both at the birds and Dean's stunned face.

The raven flies back down first, coming back to Sam on the stage, and landing on his outstretched wrist. He gives it a few gentle strokes before lifting it back into the air. It flaps a few feet above his head, then just as quickly as they'd become wings, they become paper again, and the notebook falls down, Sam immediately catching it between both hands and handing it back to Dean, who now looks a few shades paler than he'd been a few moments ago.

“Thanks a lot.” Sam says, smiling. Dean nods robotically, refusing to make eye contact, and moves right back to his spot near the stairs.

“Splendid. Absolutely magnificent.” Gabriel says. “This will definitely work. It's going to work. He gets up from his seat and makes his way to the stage, stopping right in front of where the floor and stage meet.

“There's still a matter of his costume.” Anna calls from back in her seat. “This is nice, but he needs more than one, no?”

“What kind of costume are you looking for?” Sam asks.

“This fits the color scheme just fine, young man,” Anna says. “But we need something that's gonna make people do a double take. Can you do anything with the color silver? Perhaps something like with the birds?”

“I see.” Sam says.

Anna stands up and moves to where Gabriel is standing and thinking about their small dilemma. She whispers something in his ear, and he turns to consult with her, turning away from Sam for a moment.

Nobody has their full attention on Sam except for Dean as he continues to stand perfectly still, waiting. And then, slowly but surely, his suit begins to change.

Starting at the neck, the vest he wears turns as pure white as his undershirt underneath, and suddenly, birds fly from left to right on the vest, and falling like snow, images of feathers start to take over the vest, covered with the illusion of silver feathers falling from the birds, until all anyone can look at is those birds dropping their feathers all across that vest, all the way down to his suit's pants.

“Well. That's definitely something I could never hope to pull off.” Anna says, though she's not really all that bothered by it. “Though I wonder if perhaps your hair can just be a shade darker?”

Sam rakes a hand through his hair, and his floppy locks deepen ever so slightly to a darker shade of the brown hue, making him look even younger.

“Incredible.” Gabriel says, almost to himself.

Sam just smiles, glad to have made a lasting impression.

Gabriel pulls himself right up to the stage, not even bothering with the stairs. Once on the same level, he inspects Sam's suit from every angle.

“Mind if I…?” He asks before reaching to touch the vest. Sam nods. The vest is undeniably still a suit, despite the moving illusion adorned on it, leaving absolutely no hint as to how Sam made that happen, the material as soft as expected from such a fine suit.

“What happened to your grandfather, if you don't mind me asking?” Gabriel asks, his attention never wavering from the suit.

“I don't.” Sam replies. “He got more than he bargained for when he attempted something dangerous.”

“That's just too bad.” “Mr. Campbell, would you be interested in a very unique job offer?”

Gabriel snaps his fingers and Dean approaches, joining them until he's a few feet away from Sam, his stare moving from his suit to his hair and back, unable to make up his mind.

Before Sam can respond,  a coo echoes through the auditorium from the dove still flying in figure eights above the balcony seats, oblivious to the scene below.

“Hang on.” Sam says. He lifts a hand to beckon the dove back to him. In response, the dove gives another coo and swoops back down, ever so delicately as it approaches.  It even more delicately moves straight towards Sam as it descends, almost as light as a feather. Gabriel takes a step back, almost bumping into Dean as the dove lands on Sam in a puff of feathers.

And then it's gone. Not one real feather is left and Sam is once again wearing his pure white tailcoat, already buttoned back on and the feathery illusion now adorned on it instead of the vest.

Down off the stage, Anna claps.

Sam takes a bow, taking the opportunity to turn his vest back to its standard gray.

“Perfect.” Gabriel remarks, pulling a candy bar from his pocket. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Very good, sir.” says Dean behind him, the notebook he's holding trembling.

 

The other illusionists that are still waiting in the hallway leave in a huff when they're thanked for their time, and politely dismissed.


	16. Anything Could Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I met my opponent.” 
> 
> “Is it that bendy woman you keep oogling over?”
> 
> “No. It's my brother, and Samuel Campbell's grandson.”
> 
> “Samuel Campbell? The hunter, the one who's seminar you went to?”

_Springfield, Ohio, April 2003_

“There's no way we're keeping him limited to the crowd.” Gabriel says. “He's getting his own tent, case closed. We'll just have the audience sit in a circle surrounding him, so the audience doesn't miss a thing.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean says, messing with his notebook, tracing his fingers over the pages, pages that had been raven's feathers only a few minutes ago.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Gabriel asks. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” His voice echoes throughout the empty auditorium where they're now alone, Anna having led Sam away to discuss what Sam is and isn't willing to do for his performances.

But the joke's on Gabriel; if Dean had seen a ghost, he'd be much calmer than he is now. “Nothing, sir.” Dean says.

“You look terrible.” Gabriel says, munching on his candy bar. “Go home and rest up.”

Dean looks right at him, surprised, “No way. We have way too much paperwork to get all squared away.” he protests.

“We can always do it tomorrow. Anna and I will take Sam back to the house for coffee, and we'll sort out all the paper stuff later. Get some z's in, or go get you some, or whatever it is you do in your time off.” Gabriel dismisses him, the caramel from his candy bar stretching like silly string.

“If you insist, sir.”

“I do! And could you do me a favor and send the others still waiting in the hallway away? We have no need for them when we've clearly got the prize pig. He's pretty cute too, for a guy.”

“Agreed, sir.” Dean says, blushing slightly. “...See you tomorrow.” He nods slightly, before marching right out of the auditorium into the hallway.

“Thought you had a stronger stomach than that, Dean.” Gabriel calls after him, but Dean makes no indication he heard.

Dean politely dismisses the other illusionists, explaining they've found what they're looking for, and thanking them for their time. Not one of them asks about the slight shake his body has taken on, or that one of his hands is clenched so tight around the other, the knuckles have turned white, nor do they ask about how the fingers have broken the skin, making small drops of blood smear on his wrist.

Once they're gone, Dean releases his wrist, wiping the blood on his pants, and exits the university.

He becomes more and more agitated with every step, not bothering to excuse himself when he just barrels right through the crowds.

 

When he reaches his apartment, Dean collapses onto his couch, leaning against the back with a loud sigh.

“What's got you all in a tizzy?” Pamela asks from a chair next to the couch. She takes care to hide the lock of hair she'd been practicing braiding in her jeans pocket, pissed that she has to start over again due to the broken concentration. After all this time, the concentration and focus is still the toughest part.

But for now, she forgets about it come and watches Dean as he gets up to head straight to his bookshelf where all his countless notebooks and lore books are still lying in wait.

“I met my opponent.” Dean says, pulling as many lore books from the shelves as he can carry and leaving the ones that fall off in a messy pile as he brings the ones he's holding to the table. Those that he left on the shelves fall to the side, but Dean doesn't bother to correct it.

“Is it that bendy woman you keep oogling over?” Pamela asks, watching Dean's near-OCD filling system fall apart. Dean's always taken care to keep his apartment clean, and the sudden chaos is somewhat disorienting.

“No.” Dean says as he flips through a book. “It's my brother, and Samuel Campbell's grandson.”

Pamela stands up to pick up one of the books that fell off the shelf and puts it back in its rightful spot.

“Samuel Campbell?” She asks, “The hunter, the one who's seminar you went to?”

Dean nods.

“I didn't even know you had a brother, or that Campbell had a grandson.”

“I did.” Dean says, pushing one book away and opening another one. “Gabriel just hired him as an illusionist for the circus.”

“What?” Pamela asks. Dean doesn't respond. “So he'll be doing what you've been training to do as well, real magic that looks like illusions. Was that his audition?”

“Yep.” Dean says without even looking at her.

“Must've been impressive.”

“Too impressive.” Dean says, going to the shelf again, grabbing another huge load and dumping them on the table, another book the newest victim of the floor. “We've got a serious problem here.” He says, so quietly Pamela almost doesn't hear him. The frantic page turning causes a bunch of notebooks to fall onto the floor.

Pamela picks up the book on the floor by the shelf again moving it away entirely.

“Did he recognize you?” She asks.

“...no, I don't think so.” Dean admits.

“Is it safe to assume that the circus is part of this game you keep talking about?”

At this, Dean finally stops his frantic page turning to look at her.

“What else would it be?.” He says before going right back to his books. “That’s why I got the job working for Gabriel. How else was I gonna get an in? The circus is the game board.”

“Isn't that a good thing?” Pamela asks, not getting what's got Dean so wound up, but Dean doesn't answer her, too caught up in the words on the pages he's flipping through.

With one hand, he fidgets with the half-moon indents on his other wrist. What's left of the blood he drew is smeared. “He made feathers fall on the fabric.” he mutters. “How the hell did he do that?”

Pamela moves a pile of the abandoned books to the coffee table, where her tarot cards are lying by themselves. She looks up at Dean, who's now completely engrossed in one book. Quietly, she spreads her cards out in a long line.

Keeping his eyes on Dean, she draws only one card. She flips it so it's topside, looking at it to see what the divine might have to say about this new development.

A woman in a blue robe sits in between two pilliars, with a white B on the black one, and a black J on the white. _Pýthia_. The high priestess.

“Is he handsome?” Pamela asks.

Dean doesn't answer her.

She pulls another card from her fanned out deck and sets it on top of the high priestess. _Dikaiosýni_.

She frowns at the robed man holding a blue sword in his left hand, and a scale in the other. She returns the drawn cards back to the deck, pushing them back into a stack.

“Does he have a chance of beating you?” Pamela asks.

Again, Dean says nothing, now looking through a notebook.

It had been so many years since he'd had to give up hunting for training, and he thought he'd been doing so well. Practicing with Pamela definitely helped him, using her as his audience so he can continuously improve his illusions to the point where though she's already seen them all, even Pamela sometimes can't tell they're not real.

But now that he's finally seen his brother again after so long, and seeing what he can do, now the game has become more real, and all his confidence is shot to hell.

He was hoping once the game began, some deep gut instinct would just kick in and he could just follow it.

He'd even hoped that there wasn't a game at all, that the game was just John's way of getting him to making a long-term commitment so they'd have a bigger advantage, once he'd be allowed to return to hunting.

“Does this mean the game begins once the circus is up and running?” Pamela asks him. He'd almost forgotten she even existed.

“That would be the next logical assumption.” Dean says. “But how the hell am I supposed to play the game if the circus keeps traveling, while I'm stuck here in Ohio? Am I just expected to play from a distance?”

“I could step in.” Pamela says.

“What?” Dean asks, looking up at her again.

“Didn't you say the circus is still looking for a fortune teller? I could just read the cards. Haven't read for anyone but myself, but I'm getting better all the time. I could always send you letters when we're not in town. I'd have somewhere to go, and didn't you say you couldn't afford to have distractions while playing the game anyway?”

“I'm not a fan of that idea.” Dean says, although he doesn't have a real reason for saying it. Beyond practicing his illusions, he'd actually never considered having Pamela do more. He'd tried to keep it separate from Gabriel and the circus, both so he could keep his two lives separate, and because it seemed like the rational thing to do, especially given John's advice.

“Dean, come on.” Pamela says. “I can help you.”

Dean hesitates, looking at his books. His thoughts are stuck on the memory of his brother, the sweet boy from the theater.

“It'll also help you stay connected with the circus,” Pamela continues, “and I'll have something to do while you're playing the game. Once it's over, I can come back to Ohio.”

“I don't really even know anything about the game.” Dean says.

“But you're absolutely sure I can't stay here while you're playing it?”

Dean sighs. They'd had discussions about it before, not in detail, but enough to know that that was something that couldn't be compromised on.

“I'm already working for Gabriel, and I'll need my mind sharp for the game without... distractions.” he says, using John's choice of words, his usual order disguised as suggestion. He's not sure which one has him more riled up: bringing Pamela into it or having to give up the one person he's met that doesn't already have everything planned out for him.

“If I go, I'll be helping, not distracting.” Pamela says. “And if I can't do that either, then I'd stick to just the letters. Since when is writing letters against the law? Problem solved.”

“I could always get you an interview with Gabriel.” Dean suggests.

“And you could... convince him to say yes, couldn't you?” Pamela asks. “On the off chance he might say no?”

Dean nods, still not entirely sold but unable to deny he really needs a strategy, a way to counter his opponent.

He thinks about his name again and again.

“What is Samuel's grandson’s name?” Pamela asks, practically reading his mind.

“Sam.” Dean says, “His name is Sam.”

“Little egotistical, maybe, but still a nice name.” Pamela says. “What's up with your hand?”

Dean looks down, surprised to find he'd had one hand clasped in the other, fiddling with the finger where he'd once put a ring there.

“Nothing.” he says, picking up a random notebook to distract himself. “Absolutely nothing.”

Pamela seems to be satisfied with that answer, lifting more books from the floor and putting them back to their rightful place on the shelf.

Dean is more than relieved that Pamela can't read minds so she can't see his memory of the ring in his mind’s eye.


	17. Fire and Light

Upon exiting the tunnel, you enter a courtyard, completely surrounded by the big, striped tents.

All around the courtyard are winding pathways, leading away from here, all illuminated by those wonderful fairy lights.

Vendors are working the crowd, selling all kinds of refreshments and souvenirs, food with both grease and sugar, sure to please anyone who'd be brave enough to taste.

A contortionist in a beautiful red costume bends her body on a platform nearby **,** bending her body like the most complex pretzel.

A juggler tosses orbs of precious metals, bronze, silver, iron, and even a gold, high into the air, hovering ever so slightly before they're back in her hands, the small crowd of spectators giving a small round of applause each time.

The entire courtyard is bathed in this warm glowing light, completely different from the magical kind from the fairy lights.

No, this one is coming from an impressively large bonfire, smack dab in the middle of the entire courtyard.

As your curiosity brings you closer, you see that the bonfire is coming from a large cauldron, of all things. It's balanced on clawed feet, and it's curled all along the rim, like it had been melted down and pulled apart.

The curling iron goes up before it's pulled back to curl in on itself, intertwining with the other curls, giving it a cage like effect. Flames are visible between gaps, as well as slightly above them all. The only place where you can't see anything is the bottom, where you can't hope to see what the source of the flames even is.

But the strangest thing of all is something other than all those things combined. The flames themselves aren't even your usual yellow or orange, or even a scientifically manipulated color like blue or pink.

These flames are white as snow, dancing among the curled iron of the cauldron they're contained in.


	18. I Just Wasn't Made for These Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He blames Jane for it, even though technically it was his grandmother's fault. Jack's always been more fond of her than Jane, so Jack feels his blame is rightfully placed. Had Jane actually stuck to her guns, perhaps this whole thing could've been avoided.

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 2019_

The talks about expectations for Jack's future started nearly from the get-go and came up as often as possible, although by now, they'd devolved into heated arguments and hurt silences.

He blames Jane for it, even though technically it was his grandmother's fault. Jack's always been more fond of her than Jane, so Jack feels his blame is rightfully placed. Had Jane actually stuck to her guns, perhaps this whole thing could've been avoided.

It started with a request from his grandmother disguised as a suggestion, which sounded innocent enough, that Jane start thinking about college.

Jane was definitely interested in the idea through the entire dinner at their grandmother's house in Cambridge.

But Jane has never been the girl to stand her ground when someone brings down the hammer, and when exactly that happened the moment they'd made it back home, and their father solidified it with just two words,

“Absolutely not.”

Jane just accepted the defeat with nothing more than an annoyed sigh, writing the whole thing off as ridiculous anyway, never being one for city life, anyway. And how can she be expected think about something like college when her best friends Stacy and Max are engaged with a wedding to plan?

With that, the subject died.

Then, of course, Jack got his acceptance letter from Cambridge, and while his grandmother did praise him for it, Jack would have to tell them no, because he'd be going to Harvard.

This she didn't even bother to suggest. As far as she was concerned, Jack was going to Harvard, and that was that. Any questions about tuition were immediately squashed by her assuring Jack that it would all be taken care of.

The other arguments started before Jack could even get a word in.

“I wouldn't mind going.” He said, when they'd stopped long enough for him to say something.

“You're joining the family business.” Was all his father said.

The next logical point of action would be to just drop it now and bring it up again later. After all, he is only 16 and there's still time for things to change on their own.

But instead, and he himself can't explain it even if he wanted to, he keeps bringing it up, whenever he can. He points out that he can do both, going to school for 4 years and then coming back.

Naturally, these points are met with long lectures, but those eventually devolve into shouting matches and slammed doors. His mom stays out of it whenever she can, but when she's forced to take a side, she goes with her husband, but she also tries to assure him that she's on Jack's side as well.

Truthfully, Jack doesn't even know if he wants to go to Harvard at all. The city definitely appeals to him more than Jane, and maybe the appeal of it is more about the mystery, the option most likely to open more doors rather than less.

Whereas the family business holds no real appeal other than unchallenged orders and rules, which is more than predictable for a military man like his father.

He already knows how that would turn out. Every damn day. Every month. When he needs to wake up in the morning and how to avoid getting snapped at.

Always the same, and he can't stand it.

He tries to bring up his issue with this repetition to his mom, hoping that it'll help her see that leaving is the better choice, but she just says that she actually likes the routine, and asks if he's done with his chores yet.

The invitations for visits to Cambridge are now only for Jack, not even bothering to invite Jane anymore. Jane isn't too bothered by it, having grown tired of visiting an old fashioned woman anyway. Jack is more than happy to go alone, not having to be constantly annoyed by Jane's constant talking.

“It really doesn't matter if you go to Harvard or not.” His grandmother says one day, although Jack hadn't said anything. He does his best to avoid it, knowing exactly where she actually stands on the matter.

Jack just nods and waits for her to elaborate.

“It's just a means of getting you out there, seeing the world.” She continues. “And I just want you to have that, even if your parents don't think it's important. Do you know why I gave your father my blessing to marry my daughter?”

“No, I don't.” Jack says. It's not a subject he's been particularly interested in, although Jane once whispered to him that it was scandalous in their times. Even 20 years later, their father doesn't come to visit, and vice versa.

“Because she's always known what she wants, and nothing anyone including me could say was going to change it.” she says. “It's what she wanted. I definitely wouldn't have picked him out for her, but a child needs to figure things out for themselves, not always rely on everyone else. I listen when you're reading books out loud to my cats. When you were about 5 years old, you took a laundry basket and turned it into the Millennium Falcon and launched an attack on my hydrangea bush, or the Death Star as you called it. You can't tell me you'd actually be happy with your father's business.”

“But it's my responsibility.” Jack says, repeating a word that's really started to annoy him.

His grandmother makes a noise that might be a scoff or a snort, or maybe both.

“You need to do you, Jack.” She says, “Even if it's not Harvard. You could wind up doing something completely different. Regardless of what your father thinks, or how much he may try to push it on you. He's always forgotten that someone had big dreams for him too, once.”

Jack nods, and his grandmother sits back in het chair and complains about nonsensical things for awhile, not bringing up the matter again the entire visit. Except for when Jack's about to leave, when she tells him, “Please think about what I said.”

“I will.” He assures her.

He doesn't have the courage to tell her that he does have a dream, and it's even crazier than the family business or Harvard.

But he still continues to go head-to-head with his father, now even more frequently than before.

“I thought my opinion is supposed to matter.” He says one night, before the conversation has devolved.

“You thought wrong.” His father answers.

“Maybe you should just give it up, Jack.” His mother says quietly, after his father leaves the room once again

Jack starts to spend all his free time outside.

School helps, but with everything, it's suddenly become not long enough. To compensate, he works more, in the front office filing paperwork, choosing specific times when his father isn't there.

Then, when that's still not long enough, he starts taking walks, through fields, the woods, and even a cemetery or two.

He walks past the headstones of known dreamers like him, be it philosophers or poets, or authors that he knows from his own personal library, heavily influenced by his grandmother. There's countless more, all with names he doesn't recognize, and even more with no names at all, long since worn away by the elements.

He walks aimlessly, but more often than not he usually winds up right back at the same tree he used to sit by with Jane and her friends.

He's much taller now, so when he reaches, he climbs up with an ease he'd never had before, and goes up to the most stable branches near the top. There's enough shade to shield him but still bright enough to read, so he makes it part his routine to always bring at least one.

His literature ranges from history to Greek mythology to fairytales, wondering why it's only the women that have someone to rescue them from their terrible lives.  It's just another reminder that he'll probably never get his own opportunity, and he already knows he can't extend the same courtesy to someone else.

During the hours he spends watching animals go by in the empty fields, he wishes someone would steal him away, but wishes on animals are as unhelpful as one on a star.

He tries unsuccessfully to convince himself that there's nothing wrong with his life. Most would feel lucky to even have the opportunity.

But he knows he's not fooling anyone. Even the walks he's indulged in has suddenly lost their comfort.

So the tree it is.

To make it more cozy, he takes his keepsake box filled with his most valuable possessions and hides it in a hole in the trunk.

The box itself is considerably small. It's made of wood and wrapped in material to prevent scratches, and he has it secure enough to where it's never been dislodged by anyone but him.

The contents of the box are an arrowhead he found so long ago. A stone he's dubbed a rock ring. A feather. A rock that his mom swears is a real gem. A coin from his first allowance. A snake carcass that belonged to Felix before he'd died when Jack was nine. A silver pocket watch that's started to gather rust from both age and being in a box of rocks.

And of course, several papers with handwritten words.

After the circus packed up and left, he wrote down every single thing he could remember about it so he could remind himself it was real. The popcorn. The fire tent. The amazing clock right across from the ticket booth, that was so much more than just a clock.

When he wrote down each detail, he just couldn't bring himself to write about the dark haired girl. He never said a word about her to anyone. He'd looked for her when he'd gone again two more times during their actual business hours, but she was nowhere to be found.

Then just as soon as it had come, the circus was gone, like it had never been there at all.

It hasn't returned since.

The only proof either the circus or the girl even exists, that's not purely from memory, is the pocket watch.

But he can't bring himself to open the box anymore. It just sits in its hiding place in the trunk, all but forgotten.

He knows he should just throw it away, but his heart sinks at the thought of it.

Maybe he'll just let mother nature take care of it, let the tree grow around it.

 

It's another bleak morning, and Jack gets up earlier than the rest of the family, which isn't out of the ordinary. He goes about doing his chores quickly, packs a peach as well as a book, and heads back to the tree. Halfway there, he thinks he probably should've brought a scarf to warm him up, but decides that it's going to warm up anyway, so what's the point? Focusing on that, he climbs up the tree past where Jane usually sat, a feeling of satisfaction as he passes it. Surrounded by the leaves that are still stubbornly hanging on, Jack settles into a comfortable spot, resting his shoes close to a lower branch.

When he randomly looks up from his book, the sight of the black and white striped tents returned once more is so startling, it's a miracle Jack doesn't fall right out of the tree.


	19. This is the Greatest Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2: Illumination
> 
> “There's so much that's mesmerizing about the circus, from fire to fairy lights. I've often heard the expression “more than meets the eye” applied to what's seen to Le Cirque de la Chasse so often, now and again I wonder if the circus itself really exists at all, or if it's as wonderful as we all believe it to be.”
> 
> \--Donatello Redfield, 2007
> 
> Every detail is planned down to the last second, and a crowd Live Aid would envy is gathered outside long before the gates are even open.

_Ohio, October 13 and 14, 2003_

Opening Night, naturally, is an extravaganza. Every detail is planned down to the last second, and a crowd Live Aid would envy is gathered outside long before the gates are even open. When they finally do, they're all in awe as they move from tent to tent, the expression never wavering.

Each and every part of the circus is in harmony with one another. Performers from all around the globe have practiced for this and nothing else for months, now are each in their respective tents, seamlessly blending together. Every costume worn, every gesture made, every sign read is better than the previous one.

The air isn't heavy or sweltering, instead it's clear and cool, saturated with all the wonderful scents and sounds that entice each and every one of them.

At midnight, the Ceremony of the Bonfire commences, the cauldron standing empty, like it's just a decoration. Eight fire archers enter the courtyard, all on their own platform as they ready their bows and arrows. These aren't any ordinary arrows, though. Each arrow, when fired, represents a different element.

Thirty seconds before midnight, the archers light their arrows and aim it right at the cauldron. At ten seconds, they all fire their arrows one after another, all landing right in the cauldron.

The first arrow is the traditional fire, and when it hits its target, the bonfire lights up in yellow.

The second arrow looks more like waves rather than fire, and when it joins the first, the fire turns a clear blue.

The third arrow is darker, almost like a purple flame, but when it lands on the cauldron, the flames turn pink.

The fourth one is murky brown, but the flame turns the fire a grassy green.

The fifth actually looks like sparks of lightning are coming off the tip, and the arrow turns the flames a lemon yellow.

The sixth doesn't look like there's anything on the tip, but when fired, a gust of wind follows it, and hitting the cauldron turns the flames a sort of cream color.

Number seven looks almost looks like the purple one, but it becomes apparent when it hits the cauldron that the flame is a pitch black, one never seen in firey flames.

And then, the last one is fired, and it immediately banishes all of the black, replacing it with the purest white, it's almost holy.

The crowd erupts in thunderous applause. The ones who had considered leaving now are talking excitedly about the lighting. Those who didn't get to see it can't bring themselves to believe what they're told afterwards, be it minutes or hours.

People go into tent after tent, walking down the seemingly endless paths that connect and loop, never stopping. Some take their time going in one by one, while others have already found favorites, choosing to spend all their time in it. Patrons are very friendly to others, politely pointing out ones they enjoyed. Whether the advice is taken or not doesn't matter, the advice is always welcome here, although most find themselves too distracted by other tents.

When it's closing time, it's difficult to push out every last patron as the sun comes up, their only comfort being that they'll be allowed to return the following night.

All in all, opening night is an undeniable success.

The only mishap is one that was completely unexpected. Many of the patrons didn't even notice it, and the performers didn't know anything about it until after it already happened.

Right before sunset, while putting together last-minute touches, the clairvoyant unexpectedly goes into labor. She's not married, but when not in a delicate state, she's one of the psychics that actually can speak to the dead.

The babies are going to be twins, although they weren't due for a few more weeks. Many joke that they didn't want to miss opening night.

A doctor is called before the circus opens, and is escorted backstage to assist in delivery.

Six minutes before midnight, Maximilian Banes is born.

A minute later, his sister, Alicia Banes is born.

When he gets the news, Gabriel is slightly disappointed to hear they're not identical twins. He'd been hoping to center their act around it once they were old enough. Since they're only fraternal, there's not much room for theatrics, but he still has Dean arrange to send the circus two bouquets of flowers anyway.

They're so small, both with shockingly dark hair. They don't really cry, choosing to stay awake and alert, with matching brown eyes. They're wrapped in identical blankets, both in black.

In between acts, performers peek in on them, taking turns holding them or commenting on their impeccable timing. They're naturals, everyone says, even their hair.

“It's so well planned, isn't it?.” Lisa Braeden says, but when pressed, she clams up. She gives both twins a kiss on the forehead, and after she has a break, folds paper airplanes to throw over their crib.

When it's closer to dawn, as the circus is emptying out, they're taken for a walk around the tents to the courtyard. It's thought that it would help them fall asleep, but they both stay awake, paying attention to all they see, from the lights to costumes to the stripes on the tents, even though they're only a few hours old.

It's not until the sun is completely up when they finally fall asleep side by side, in the cradle that was, oddly, already waiting for them. Someone sent it as a gift a few weeks before they arrived, although the sender had given no clues to their identity. The Banes’ assumed it was from Gabriel, but when they thanked him for it, he was as clueless as them.

Regardless, the twins seem to like it just fine.

Nobody knows exactly when the twins’ names were reduced to the nicknames Max and Ali. But just like the crib, nobody takes credit.

But regardless, the nicknames stick like glue.


	20. Kà

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean spends several hours of his time checking his watch, waiting for midnight to come.
> 
> As midnight comes closer, Sam decides to go and see if he can find somewhere he can watch the fire from a distance.

_Ohio, October 13 and 14, 2003_

Dean spends several hours of his time checking his watch, waiting for midnight to come.

The unexpected delivery of the Banes twins has already thrown a wrench in his planned schedule, but long as the lighting of the bonfire goes as planned, everything will fall into place.

It was the best solution he could come up with, knowing within a few weeks the circus will be miles away, leaving him in Ohio.

While Pamela assured him that she'd be as helpful as she can, Dean knows he needs something stronger.

Since he'd found out where the game was going to be, very slowly he'd been taking on more responsibility. Doing everything Gabriel asked him to do and more, to the point where he had final say on everything from how the gates should look to the striped tents.

The true extent of the binding has him a little spooled. He’s never attempted anything like this before, but he sees no reason not to use anything that could give him an edge in the game.

The bonfire will be his connection to the circus, even though with his lack of experience, he has no idea if this will work the way it hopes. With so many people, it's only practical to add a safety measure.

The whole lighting takes months of preparation. Gabriel was more than willing to let Dean organize it, having already proven himself more of an asset than a liability. With barely a nod, and the ball was in Dean's court.

Most importantly, Gabriel agreed to keeping it a secret. It took on a feeling reminiscent of a Dessert Dinner, with no questions even allowed.

No answers are given as to what the arrows are lit with, nor the other arrows lit with something other than fire, not even how the flames were able to change color.

Anyone brave enough to ask was told that to know was to ruin the excitement.

Of course, Dean had no way of practicing the most important part.

It's easy enough to slip away from Gabriel in the crowded courtyard before midnight.

He walks straight towards the cauldron, getting as close as he can. He pulls a huge leather notebook from  his duffle bag, an exact replica of the one in his office. Nobody is paying attention when he throws it right into the cauldron, landing with a thud on the bottom.

The cover opens of its own accord, exposing his elaborate ink garden to the clear night sky.

He stays close to the cauldron as the archers get ready to fire.

His focus stays completely on the flames, regardless of how many patrons surround him to get a better look, the fire changing color with each arrow.

Once the last arrow lands, Dean closes his eyes. The blinding light of the white fire practically burns through his eyes.

 

Sam was expecting to feel like the worst kind of faker when he first starts to perform, but he's more than relieved to discover he was wrong, as the circus is nothing like the ones he was forced to do for practice.

The space he was given is small and personal. He always has a fairly sized audience to where they're always their individual selves, instead of a crowd of faceless people.

He's given free reign to change his performance at will, watching the audience for clues to what trick he should do next.

While he likes it more than he was expecting, he's always grateful for the breaks in between where he has time to himself. As midnight comes closer, Sam decides to go and see if he can find somewhere he can watch the fire from a distance.

But as he makes his way to backstage, he's quickly roped into the chaos surrounding the birth of the Banes twins.

There's already a small gathering of performers, waiting excitedly. The doctor is understandably weirded out by the whole thing. The contortionist sometimes stays and goes. Asa Fox, Tasha Bane's husband and the twins father, paces back and forth, like one of his trained cats.

Sam does his best to make himself useful, which turns out to be only grabbing cups of water and assuring everyone that everything is going to be fine.

Oddly, it reminds him of the old days when he'd had to console clients over their dearly departed relatives, to the point when someone actually thanks him by name, he's shocked.

So when the cry comes just minutes before midnight, it's met by sighs and cheers.

But before they can enjoy it, something else immediately happens

Sam feels it before he hears it, the resounding applause reaching his ears, and the force is so powerful, it's like a seismic shift.

It's so powerful it actually slams right into him, almost knocking him flat on his ass.

“You okay?” A voice behind him asks, and he turns to find Lisa Braeden holding one of his arms to steady him. There's an all too familiar knowing smile on Lisa's face as he takes her in.

“Yes, I'm alright.” Sam says, fighting to catch his breath.

“You're a sensitive, aren't you?” Lisa says, “Not uncommon for sensitives to be knocked back by something like this.”

There's another loud cry from the other room, joining the other one in a tiny chorus.

Sam just nods.

“Sorry you missed the lighting,” Lisa continues. “It was truly something to see.”

When the Banes twins’ cries die down, Sam tries to shake off that unsettling feeling that never seems to go away, running up and down his arms like ants.

He still doesn't know who his opponent is, but whatever it is they did, it definitely has him shaken.

He feels the entire circus around him, like someone has put a giant glass dome over it, trapping everything inside the fences, like a snow globe.

He wonders how he needs to make his move.


	21. Life Stained Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel starts people watching, trying to figure out what entices people to enter one tent instead of another. He notices signs that need to be adjusted or moved higher to make them easier to read, entrances that aren't easy enough to find, and still others that are either drawing too much attention or not enough.
> 
> But those are just small details, little elbow grease to make the machine flawless.

_Ohio, October 13 and 14, 2003_

Gabriel doesn't go in any of the tents on opening night. Instead, he walks down the pathways and loops around the entire circus with Dean following him, who takes notes when Gabriel has something worth noting.

Gabriel starts people watching, trying to figure out what entices people to enter one tent instead of another. He notices signs that need to be adjusted or moved higher to make them easier to read, entrances that aren't easy enough to find, and still others that are either drawing too much attention or not enough.

But those are just small details, little elbow grease to make the machine flawless. Really, the circus couldn't be more perfect. The patrons are over the moon. The ticket line goes around the diameter of the entire fence. The place is roaring with excitement.

A few minutes before midnight, Gabriel makes it to the edge of the courtyard and positions himself to get a good view of the bonfire lighting, as well as the crowd’s reaction.

“You get everything together for this?” he asks.

There's no response.

When he turns, he only finds patrons walking back and forth, with Dean nowhere to be seen.

“Dean?” He says, but there's still no reply.

One of the Harvelle women spots Gabriel and walks up to him, careful not to bump into anyone.

“Hi, Gabriel.” She says once she's next to him, “What's wrong?”

“Seems Dean is MIA.” He says. “Weird. But I wouldn't worry about it, Jo.”

With that blessing, Jo asks, “Is it still too early to declare the night a roaring success?”

“So far so good, but we still have hours ahead of us, sweetheart. How's Miss Banes?”

“She's doing great, I think. But it's only been an hour since I heard anything. But the twins are definitely gonna have a birthday to remember, don't you think?”

“You know, if they're identical twins, we could give them their own act. Give them matching costumes.”

Jo laughs, “They can't even walk yet! Don't go putting the cart before the horse.”

Around the cauldron, 8 archers take their places. Jo and Gabriel pause their conversation to watch. Jo keeps her eyes on the archers, whereas Gabriel watches the crowd for their reactions. In seconds, they're part of the audience, like their showing up was perfectly timed with the lighting. Everything is according to plan.

The archers fire away one by one, sending their mystical arrows through the awaiting cauldron. The whole circus is lit up with color as the clock chimes, the last 8 of them resounding throughout the circus.

On the last, the bonfire bursts white hot. Everything in the courtyard shakes, scarves moving without a breeze, tents shaking.

Thunderous applause erupts from the audience. Jo claps right along with them, while Gabriel beside her Gabriel loses his balance, dropping his just unwrapped candy bar onto the ground.

“Hey, Gabriel, are you okay?” Jo asks.

“Just a little dizzy.” he says. Jo takes his arm to help him regain his balance, leading him to right outside the closest tent, away from prying eyes.

“You didn't feel that?” He asks her. His legs are wobbly, and Jo struggles to support him as a passerby knocks them out of the way.

“Feel what?” She asks, but Gabriel doesn't respond, still feeling a bit shaky.

“Jesus. You'd think someone would have the sense to put some benches out here.” Jo mutters.

“Everything alright, Jo?” a voice from behind her asks. When she turns, she finds Dean hovering, notebook in hand and looking worried.

“Finally, Dean!” Jo says. “Something's going on with Gabriel.”

Unfortunately it's starting to attract attention from the crowd. Dean takes Gabriel's arm and pulls him to another corner, quieter, getting him to stand with his back to the courtyard to give him more privacy.

“How long has he been like this?” Dean asks Jo as he helps Gabriel steady himself.

“Not long at all. It just happened.” She replies. “Worried he's gonna pass out.”

“Probably nothing.” Dean assures her. “Probably just the heat. I can take it from here, Jo. Nothing you need to worry about.”

Jo's still reluctant to leave, despite that assurance.

“I swear, it's nothing.” Dean repeats, more firmly this time.

Gabriel is just staring into empty space, like he's not all there, and doesn't seem to be paying any attention to the conversation.

“If you're sure.” Jo relents.

“He couldn't be in better hands, Jo.” Dean says, and then he turns before she can respond to that, and both he and Gabriel disappear into the crowd.

“There you are.” Ellen says, appearing next to her daughter. “Been all over this damn circus looking for you. Did you watch the lighting? Was it awesome or what?”

“Uh huh.” Jo says, still looking where Dean and Gabriel disappeared.

“What's got you so preoccupied?” Ellen asks. “Did something happen?”

“How well do you know Gabriel's assistant?” Jo asks instead.

“Dean? Only a little.” Ellen says. “He's been working for Gabriel for a few years now, does the accounting. Before that I know he was a hunter. Not entirely sure why he stopped, either. He doesn't talk about that part of his life. Why? You looking for a good time?”

Jo laughs, despite herself.

“No, don't be silly. Just curious.” She takes her mom's arm. “Let’s go check out the circus together.”

Keeping close together, they were through the crowd, walking around the bonfire that many patrons can't bring themselves to look away from, mesmerized by the white flames.


	22. The Hanged Man

 

In this tent, high above the ground, there are people. Acrobats, trapeze artists, even sky dancers. They're lit up by scattered lights, to give the effect of a night sky.

No nets can be seen anywhere.

You watch the performance from the most nerve-wracking vantage point, directly below the performers, with no net to catch them.

Girls in costumes spin at heights that shouldn't be humanly possible, suspended only by ribbons. They're like Gepetto with their own Pinocchios.

Instead of the traditional trapezes, there's normal looking chairs with standard legs and backs.

Round iron cages lift up and down while more than one aerialist moves in and out of the cage, walking on top or hanging from the bottom.

In the center there's a man with more edgy clothing. He's wearing a leather vest and pants combo, with a cross necklace and spiky bracelets. If you didn't know better, you'd think he's a douchebag. He has a bungee cord attached to one leg, and his hands are behind his back.

He moves ever so slowly. He reaches his arms out to the sides, one after the other, until they're stretched out, holding two silver rings.

He spins the rings as he spins himself, faster and faster until he's nothing but a blur, and you can't tell what's him and what's the rings.

Then, rather suddenly, he stops, and falls, throwing the rings up in the air.

The audience below him immediately rush to get out of the way, clearing the way for him to land.

You know you should look away, but you just can't.

The he stops, right at eye level with the crowd. Up above, the rings fall, and he catches them flawlessly, spinning them around his wrist once more.

Once he has both rings in one hand, he holds them out, and bends at the waist to take a bow.

Although as the crowd is filling out, on instinct you turn back, just to see, only to discover the tent is completely empty, no sign of any of the performers or even any iron cages or ribbons.

When you look at the tent's sign, where there used to be words, now it's completely bare, no evidence it had ever had anything on it.


	23. Cirque Dans La Rue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pays for his drink, and extra for mini marshmallows, the cup itself black and white striped with silver swirls, which makes him pause, wondering if this is where the illusion of the place will be shattered.

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 2019_

Jack spends the entire day willing the sun to set faster, but it refuses to go any faster, and almost seems to slow its cycle, just to spite him. It’s slow enough to where Jack nearly wishes it wasn’t the weekend so that he could kill the remaining hours with school. He even considers taking a nap, but the sudden reappearance of the circus has him too riled up to do anything of the sort.

Dinner comes and goes in the same manner it has for months now, awkward silences with his mother’s attempts at polite conversation, and Jane’s sighs of boredom.

Although at one point his mom brings up the circus, but it’s only to talk about how popular it’s going to be, rather than the possibility of going.

But this conversation catches Jane’s attention, as she turns to Jack to ask,

“Wait a minute. Didn’t I dare you to sneak into that circus last time, Jack?” Her tone betrays no deceit; she genuinely can’t remember if she actually did it or not.

“You mean during the day?” his mother asks. Jane nods, not really paying attention.

“Yes.” Jack says quietly, now wishing it would go back to the awkward silence.

“Jack.” his mother begins to scold him, although Jack can’t for the life of him understand how it’s his fault, since Jane was the one to dare him. Luckily, Jane pipes up before Jack can respond.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like he actually did it,” she says, despite claiming to not remember a few moments ago.

Jack shrugs, not confirming or denying.

“Well, you better not have.” His mom says.

The silence finally returns, and Jack goes back to staring out the window, wondering when exactly the circus counts as official nighttime. He decides the best thing for him to do is get himself to the gates the second it even comes close to dusk, and wait. His feet twitch, and can’t help but wonder how soon he’ll be able to hightail it out of here.

It take what feels like another hour just to clear the table, and another perceived 30 minutes to help his mom do the dishes. Jane manages to get out of helping by disappearing to her room, and his dad sits down on the couch to read his newspaper.

“Where you off to?” his mom asks when she sees him putting on his jacket.

“Going to the circus.” Jack says.

“Not too late.” she reminds him, “You have work in the morning.”

“I won’t forget.” Jack says, glad his mom didn’t specify how late was “too late”, giving him an opportunity to stay out later.

“Don’t forget to take your sister.” she adds.

He goes to her half-closed bedroom door and knocks, because he knows he’ll never be able to get out of the house without proving that he at least tried.

“Go away.” his sister says.

“I’m heading to the circus. Wanna come?” Jack invites, not meaning it. He already knows how Jane’s going to answer before she even says it.

“Hell no” she says predictably, like her contribution to the dinner conversation, and adds, “That’s for little kids.”, giving him a dirty look for even suggesting she go.

Jack then leaves, slamming the door behind him.

The sun’s finally setting, and as he looks, more people are out here than normal, but Jack doesn’t need to look to know where they’re going. Same place he is.

But as he gets closer, the excitement he’d had bottled up all day starts to fade. What if Jane’s right, and this really is just for little kids? What if all this time, the circus has just been something he exaggerated to deal with his home life?

When he’s finally at the field, a crowd is already gathered, and what really puts him at ease is how there’s quite a number of patrons close to his age, and more that are even older, and there’s hardly any children at all. A group of his girls his age giggle when he walks past them, trying to get them to look his way. He’s not entirely sure if he should be flattered or embarrassed.

Jack finds a spot in the crowd to wait, watching the gates, still not sure if the circus will be the same as it was before.

He also wonders, deep in the back of his mind, if the dark haired girl in black will be here.

The rays of the setting sun make everything around them, including the circus itself, look like it’s on fire before the sun finally disappears on the horizon. This actually happens faster than Jack thought, the moment light turns to dark, and the circus lights finally turn on, all along the tops of the tents. The crowd erupts in predictable“ooh”s and “aah”s, but there’s a few loud gasps up front when the sign lights up right in front of them, coming to life. Jack’s smile beat them all though, when he sees it fully lit: Le Cirque de la Chasse.

While the entire day felt tedious, the line goes surprisingly fast, and it’s not long before it’s Jack’s turn to buy a ticket.

The winding entrance path feels endless as he fumbles around in the dark, already braced for the blinding light that awaits him at the end.

Once he finally reaches it, he immediately is hit with the exact same smells as all those years ago, of smoke and burnt sugar and something he just can’t put a name to.

Now that he’s finally here, Jack doesn’t know where he should even start. There’s so many tents, so many different ways to start off his night. He decides to walk around first, to see what he has to choose from.

He’s secretly hoping that wandering around will increase his chances of bumping into the dark-haired girl. But he flat out refuses to admit that embarrassing thought out loud. After all, he only met her once, and that was because of that silly dare from several years ago. Why would she even remember him, anyway? And for that matter, who’s to say he’d recognize her if he saw her himself?

He plots out his decided route in his mind, through the courtyard and out the other side, and then slowly work his way back. That sounds good to him, since the crowd’s not as crowded on the far side yet, anyway.

But, first thing’s first, he wants to get a hot chocolate. As there’s plenty of vendors strewn around the courtyard, it doesn't take long. He pays for his drink, as well as extra for mini marshmallows, the cup itself black and white stripes with silver swirls, which makes him pause, wondering if this is where the illusion of the place will be shattered.

He’s tried to recall the exact taste so many times, and despite his own reassurances, he knows no hot chocolate with or without marshmallows has ever compared. Finally, Jack can’t stand to wait any longer, and takes a miniscule sip. He was wrong. It’s better than he could’ve hoped to remember.

He picks a path at random and takes it, and as he walks down it, in between the entrances of two tents, a crowd has gathered to watch a woman on a raised platform. She’s wearing a well fitted white costume with gold sequins, and is twisting and bending into shapes that are both mesmerising as they are horrifying. Jack stops briefly to join the other spectators, despite his discomfort.

The contortionist lifts a gold hoop that matches the sequins on her outfit, twirling it with a few simple movements. She passes it to a man right in front of her on the ground, to prove it’s a solid ring. Once it’s handed back to her, she passes right through it, stretching her limbs in a fluid dance.

Once the hoop is discarded, she places a tiny box right in the center of her platform.

The box is only about a foot wide and high, but anyone who gets a closer look can see it's only slightly larger. A non-flexible woman would have a hard enough time fitting herself into it regardless of the box's size, but the most notable detail about this particular box is that it's made of glass, allowing one to see the contents.

The edges are fuzed together with iron, but anything that isn't attached to a corner is clear glass, so every second the contortionist spends fitting herself into it is on display for anyone to see. She goes slowly, making each second it goes on part of her act, until there's nothing left of her body sticking out of the box, except for one hand. It looks next to impossible where Jack is watching, a leg jammed into a corner, a shoulder by a foot, part of her arm reaching all the way around.

The one hand waves at the crowd, before pulling the lid closed. The loud click of the latch is heard, making it clear, that the box is completely shut, with all of her body visible in all 360 degrees.

But then, smoke starts to fill the box with the woman still trapped. It seems into the tiny cracks, the tiny pockets of air that her body isn't squeezed into, threading through her fingers as they're pressed up against the glass.

Then the smoke gets thicker, making it impossible to see the contortionist inside, the smoke the only thing anyone can see as it pushes itself against the glass.

But then, miraculously, a loud pop is heard, and the box bursts open. The sides of the glass fall to the sides, and the lid falls off completely. The contained smoke rises upward into the clear night air. The box, which in its current state is more a pile of glass, is now completely empty, with the contortionist nowhere to be seen.

The crowd waits for something else to happen. But nothing does. The smoke vanishes into the air, and the crowd starts to break apart.

Jack tries to get a closer look as he goes by it, wondering if it's a simple trick of the eye. But he's wrong, because he can see the platform has no trap doors, and more than that, the bottom is visible, to show that there's no one hiding below. Some way, somehow, the contortionist has disappeared, despite all signs pointing to impossible.

Jack keeps following the path. He finishes off his hot chocolate, marshmallows and all, and throws away the little cup in a trash can, although he notes the second its in the can, it vanishes.

He keeps walking, reading all the signs he passes as he goes, still unable to make up his mind. Some seem larger than life, with large and incredibly detailed signs.

But the one he finally decides on is much smaller, with a small tent to go with it. The swirly cursive gives away the content, white letters on a chalkboard.

_Illusions of the Mind_

The doorway is open, and a line is filling into the tent, so Jack joins them.

Inside it's lit by old fashioned lanterns all along the walls, but for the moment, the only things to be seen are the chairs lined up in a circle. There's only about 20 seats, in two rows so that the view is different from almost every angle. Jack chooses one that's just right across from the entrance.

The rest fill very quickly, except for two, one right next to him, and and one on the other side of the ring.

Immediately, two things catch Jack's attention.

One, the entrance that was open before is no longer visible. The entire tent now looks like one solid wall, with no means of going in or out.

The other thing Jack notices is that there's a floppy haired man sitting in the empty seat next to him, when Jack knows for a fact the man was not there a moment ago.

But Jack's attention quickly shifts its focus as the only other empty chair catches fire the flames big and ominous.

Naturally, the entire tent is in a panic. Those next to the chair are immediately on their feet and rushing for the entrance, only to discover the same as Jack that the entrance is no longer there.

The flames go higher, somehow staying just on the chair, but oddly enough, the chair shows no signs of actually being on fire, despite the flames surrounding it.

Jack looks again to the man next to him, and he gives him a small wink before getting up and walking straight to the center of the ring. While everyone else is still panicking, he removes his tailcoat and throws it casually on top of the fire.

What had been the tailcoat of what appears to be a very expensive tuxedo instantly turns into silk, rippling like water as it drapes itself on the chair.  The flames are instantly smothered. All that's left to remind the audience there even was a fire is the smell of burning wood, but even that eventually turns into a more comforting scent, like one would recall smelling when toasting marshmallows over a campfire.

The man, still right in the middle of the ring, pulls the silk off the chair, revealing not only the chair completely unharmed, but several ravens perched on its seat.

The man makes another flourish, and instantly, the silk folds like paper into a top hat. The man places it on his head, going with the rest of his ensemble, which consists of a vest, undershirt and pants that Jack thinks is supposed to look like the night sky. But a moment later, it's clear there's more to this ensemble, as a shooting star shoots across his vest, the tail covering the rest of his outfit with a shower of stars. Sometimes even the northern lights make an appearance, to make it look even more magical. The man only gives the audience the smallest of bows.

The illusionist has made himself known.

A few people including Jack applaud, while those who were panicking moments ago now come back to their seats, now curious as well as cautious.

The entire performance goes like that. Jack can't even bring himself to call them tricks, seamlessly blending into one another. The ravens vanish and reappear in all manner of places, be it under chairs or on someone's head. There's also a dove among the ravens, big enough to where it couldn't have been concealed, the only light among the darker birds. It's only well into the performance that Jack realizes the chairs combined with the closed space make it so the illusionist couldn't be using mirrors or lights for his feats. It's all right there in front of them for all to see. He even takes an audience member's smartphone and turns it into kinetic sand, and after showing off his sculpting abilities, they're all in awe as it becomes a smartphone once more, like it was never sand to begin with. All the chairs even lift off the ground, but while the floating is nice and steady, Jack can't help but clutch the sides of his chair as he sees his toes barely touching the ground.

Once the act is over, the illusionist bows while simultaneously turning away, acknowledging every single person who attended the show as they all applaud. Once he's come full circle, it suddenly becomes apparent that the man is no longer standing there, only a few twinkling shimmers in the air, reminiscent of the shower of stars on his tuxedo vest.

The door suddenly reappears, like it was never gone, and slowly, the audience leaves the way it came. Jack, however, stays behind, looking at the exact spot where the man had stood.

Outside there's now a raised platform, reminiscent of the one the contortionist stood on. But this performer isn't even moving. Jack thinks at first it's not a performer at all, just a statue wearing a very detailed costume, dressed in a gown that looks like it's made from ice, sparkling in every direction, with her makeup to match, her lips and eyelashes look like they're covered in snowflakes.

But once again, Jack is wrong, as he can see she is in fact moving, just incredibly slowly. She's moving slow enough to where Jack actually can't tell what it is that moved, only that something did. Real snowflakes fall from her, before dissolving on the ground.

Jack looks at her from every angle, noticing that her eyes are actually following him, though the eyes never blink.

On the platform is a small plaque, only slightly hidden by the gown.

It only says, _In Loving Memory_ , but there's no name to accompany it.


	24. Tomorrow's World on a Carousel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pamela doesn't even say his name, just calls him the illusionist, something Dean had asked for thinking it would be for the best, but has now come to realize it was a mistake.
> 
> Very rarely does a new tent appear to the point where when one does pop up, Sam seriously considers cancelling his performances for the night to spend it investigating.

_2004-2005_

Now that the the circus has become reality, the Circus Dinners have dwindled down to only occasionally, with Gabriel praising at one of them shortly after opening night how well the circus is doing in such a short time. The ones that brought the circus together still meet, but it’s not long before they’re limited to only when the circus is close to all of them.

Despite being always welcome, John Winchester does not attend.

As of late, these were the only times Dean was able to see his father, so John’s insistence on not coming is continuously frustrating.

After an entire year, with no sign of his leather jacket or his truck, Dean decides enough is enough; he’s going to put out a call.

He has no idea where his dad is currently staying. But he knows that in all likelihood wherever John is, it won’t be for long, and if he were to start asking around, John will have moved onto another hunt.

Instead, he leaves a voicemail, saying something’s gone really wrong and John needs to come, immediately.

He gets a knock on the door two days later.

Naturally, John looks seriously worried. He still just stands near the entrance, looking right at Dean.

“What’s going on, Dean?” he asks.

“I want to know if I’m doing this whole game right.” Dean says, hoping John won’t be too mad.

At realizing Dean lied, John looks furious. He looks like he’s about to throw a punch at someone, but instead he walks off, facing away from Dean. Finally, once he’s calmed down, he looks back at Dean, with a very calm and stoic face as he responds.

“You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to.” John says.

“But is this how it works?” Dean asks. “Both of us adding things to the circus? How long am i supposed to keep this up?”

“You have a venue.” John says. “You do what you’ve been taught, and so does Sam. You can’t do anything to each other’s pieces. It just keeps going until one of you wins. Not hard to figure out.”

“I don’t understand. I thought I was supposed to save Sam, not work against him.” Dean says.

“You find a way to do both. Unfortunately, nothing I’ve found will cover it, so I’m going to have to ask you to keep your eyes open for anything that will help. But for now, follow the rules. Like I said, you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing.”

John turns to go, but because he hasn’t completely forgotten, he gives Dean a stern look, and informs him,

“Don’t call me like that again. I’m saving lives, and I need you to focus on saving your brother.”

Then he turns and walks away.

 

It’s the middle of the day, so the circus is closed, but Sam Campbell is standing in front of the Carousel, watching as all kinds of supernatural creatures speed by, going up and down on their respective poles.

“This thing sucks.” a voice behind him says.

Samuel Campbell is no more than a ghost in the barely lit tent. His rugged look is hidden in the shadows. The changing light bounces off his jacket, magnifies the shininess of his bald head, and lights up his disapproving stare as he watches the carousel from behind Sam.

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Sam responds without even turning around. “It’s a very popular attraction. And I worked hard on this; I’d say that counts for something.”

Samuel’s snort can’t be heard by anyone but Sam, and Sam is relieved Samuel can’t see the small smile on Sam’s face at hearing it.

“You wouldn’t be so stupid if i were…”  Samuel trails off with a wave of a ghostly hand, leaving a small chill.

“You can’t blame me for that.” Sam says. “That was all you. Not my fault you’re stuck as you are. And I’m being far from stupid.”

‘How much did you tell the guy in the trenchcoat?” his grandfather asks.

“As much as I could without outright lying to him.” Sam says as Samuel floats past him, moving to get a better look at the Carousel. “He’s quite an odd guy though, not so sure about pushing boundaries until I show him the possibilities. Is he my opponent? That would definitely be a plot twist, building this Carousel for me just to throw me off his trail.”

“Castiel is not your opponent.” Samuel dismiss with a flippant wave. “Even if he were, that would be cheating.”

“Please tell me how having an architect/engineer help me isn’t working inside the circus? I went over every detail with him, he drew up several designs before finding the perfect one, built it himself, and I...enhanced it. Wanna give it a go? It’s not your average carousel.”

“What do you think?” Samuel says, looking at the dark tunnel where the creatures disappear into. “It still sucks.”

Sam sighs, walking up yo the edge to pet the head of an oversized phoenix as it goes past him.

“Plenty of the circus is already collaborative.” Sam says. “Why can’t I use that to give me an edge? You go on and on how i need to do more than just the work in my tent, but I can’t do that without every opportunity. In that regard, Castiel has been nothing but helpful.”

“Having others help you will just make this game all the more difficult. Nobody here is your friend, they mean nothing to you. And don’t forget, one of them is your opponent.”

“You already know who it is, don’t you?” Sam asks.

“I believe so."

“But you won’t share with the class.”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

Samuel frowns, watching as Sam fidgets with his hands.

“It shouldn’t be.” Samuel says.

“But he knows who I am, right?”

“Yes. Unless your opponent is absolutely dense. And John Winchester, despite being new to the game, wouldn’t choose a pushover. But it still doesn’t matter. You need to worry about your own work without your opponent distracting you, or any more _collaborations_ , as you call them.”

Samuel gestures to the Carousel, and the automatons shake, even though there’s only the slightest breeze.

“How could that possibly work?” Sam asks. “Who decides who’s piece is better? How can they even be compared? And who’s the judge, anyway?”

“That is none of your business.”

“How am I supposed to keep playing with no rules?”

The automatons turn their heads in the direction of the ghost among them. Werewolves and Wendigos and Mermaids stare at him with glossy faces.

“Knock that shit off.” Samuel snaps at his grandson. The creatures turn their heads back to their normal gazes, but a werewolf growls as it settles back to its frozen state. “You need to get your head screwed on straight.”

“It’s just a circus.” Sam says. “How can anyone be expected to keep a straight face?”

“The circus is only here to serve as a venue.”

“Then it’s not even a game, is it? It’s a museum.”

“It’s more than all of them combined.”

“How?” Sam demands, but his grandfather only shakes his head.

“You’re on a need-to-know basis. You push the limits of what you’re capable of with this circus as your showcase. You prove your opponent has no means of beating you. And ultimately, you blow your opponent right off the game board.”

“And how do you decide who’s going to get blown off?”

“Me? Not a thing.” Samuel says. “Now knock off the third degree. Do more than this piece of crap. No more collaborations.”

Before Sam can even answer, Samuel disappears, leaving Sam alone with the fully lit up Carousel.

 

In the beginning, the letters Dean gets from Pamela show up very often, but as the circus keeps traveling further away to big cities and even different continents, he goes weeks and sometimes even a month before he gets another one.

When he finally gets a new letter, he doesn't even sit down before tearing open the envelope.

He skims the first few paragraphs that are just polite conversation about how he's doing in Ohio, about how she misses Springfield, and him.

As promised, Pamela reports on the circus, but she states it all so matter-of-factly that he has difficulty picturing anything she talks about, like he was hoping for. She passes over things that she thinks would be boring, like when they're traveling or the train, but Dean knows for a fact that the train isn't their only means of transportation.

Despite the regular communication by words on paper, the distance gets more and more tedious for Dean.

She barely even mentions _Sam._ Pamela doesn't even say his name, just calls him the illusionist, something Dean had asked for thinking it would be for the best, but has now come to realize it was a mistake.

He wants to know everything about his little brother.

What he does in his free time.

If he's friendly with his audiences.

How he takes his coffee, or if he even drinks coffee.

Dean's too chicken to ask Pamela for these details.

When Dean eventually writes back, he tells her to write wherever she can, emphasizing how much he loves her letters.

He takes the papers written in her delicate handwriting, full of descriptions of the striped tents and clear night skies, and folds them into origami birds, manipulating them to fly like real ones.

 

Very rarely does a new tent appear to the point where when one does pop up, Sam seriously considers cancelling his performances for the night to spend it investigating.

Instead he decides to wait, performing every single one of his shows, the last one finishing a few hours right before dawn. He refuses to even look its way until they're finished, and he walks down the pathway straight to the newest addition of the circus.

The sign advertises something called _Immersive Reality_ , and Sam can't help but smile at the disclaimer below that apologizes for any emotional damage that may be caused.

Even so, Sam still isn't even close to prepared for what he sees when he enters.

It's just like the simple name says, but they couldn't prepare him for what lays inside.

There's no stripes on the walls. In fact, it looks like the walls are covered with digital screens, with what he immediately recognizes as a virtual reality platform right in the middle, with a headset waiting to be put on.

He steps up on the platform and picks up the headset, only hesitating for a moment before putting it on.

The headset boots up immediately, and the words float in front of his eyes,

**_Where do you want to go?_ **

The question throws Sam off guard, as he's never been asked that by anyone, not even the people he's interacted with in the circus. Still, there's so many places he's never been, places he'd love to go. But then, he decides on something simple, something that was never discussed: college. And not just any college. Stanford University. He'd glanced at a brochure once, and had immediately fallen in love with the pictures of the beautiful campus.

There's a hum as the machine comes to life, and Sam's not sure what to expect, but he closes his eyes, hoping it'll be something to remember.

What happens next really sets the tone for the rest of his experience. He feels solid concrete beneath his feet, can smell the scent of just watered grass, hear the noises of people talking.

He opens his eyes, and immediately, he understands. He's no longer in the tent in a circus, he's now in the middle of the quad of Stanford University, watching several students walk right past him.

It's so amazing and perfect, he doesn't even know where he should go first, but he decides to sit down on one of the benches, just to see how far this immersive reality goes.

He's met with delight when instead of passing right through it, he sits right down on the bench, solid and cool from disuse.

The air is fresh. It feels so good on his lungs, sending shivers down his spine.

Nobody taps his shoulder, so he figures he has to tent to himself as he gets up to explore, walking down the pathways littered with flowers and a big, calmly flowing fountain, in front of which he immediately recognizes as the Green Library.

Sam remembers reading about when the fountains run red from autumn leaves falling in the fountain, but right before his eyes, he sees the water slowly turn pink, before turning a dark red.

Curious, Sam thinks of it turning back to its normal color, and again, the water changes, responding to his thoughts.

Sam has no way of coming close to understanding how much power and skill had to have gone into making this, let alone what the upkeep has to be in order for it to function.

He wonders how his opponent could have possibly read him so well, knowing how much he'd longed for a way to see all the things he missed out on growing up. He's well aware that every last detail, down to the last brick in the building of the Stanford Library, had to have been carefully studied, almost as much as he'd studied it himself, just to pull off this illusion alone.

Sam wonders if he should retaliate by making something similar, but the thought of it gives him a headache. He briefly wishes Samuel was here, because only now does he realize what Samuel was trying to say when he was told to focus on honing his abilities.

But none of that means he's now grateful for it.

He loves having this to himself, the wonders of a place he's never been until now, combined with the scent of grass he's all but forgotten since joining the circus.

Sam winds up staying in Immersive Reality long after the sun has already risen, changing his destination from Stanford to L.A's Museum of Death (he's always been fascinated by serial killers, and had always wanted to go), to a soccer game in Brazil.

When he finally exits the tent, Sam practically has to force himself to walk away, wanting to go to so many more places, but holding firm as he walks out, determined to return next chance he gets.

 

The circus comes back near Springfield for the first time in a long time, and the afternoon before it's supposed to open, Dean gets a knock on the door of his apartment.

Dean barely cracks the door open, holding it in place when he sees it's Pamela.

“When did you have a lock change?” She asks.

“Why didn't you give me a heads up you were coming?” Dean asks instead.

“Just wanted to surprise you.” Pamela says.

Dean doesn't invite her in, but leaves her there for a moment to grab a jacket, and they're off.

The afternoon is warm and bright, and he takes her for drinks.

“What the hell is this?” Dean asks, looking at Pamela's wrist as they're walking.

“Nothing.” She responds, pulling the bracelet up underneath her sleeve to hide it from view, a lock of both their hairs braided together.

Thankfully, Dean doesn't push the subject.

Although Pamela never takes the bracelet off, by the time she's back at the circus, it's now gone, like it just vanished out of thin air.


	25. The German Clockmender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One winemaker, over a glass of merlot, suggests Donatello might like the circus that's in town, only a few miles away from here. Very odd, and it only opens at night.

_Italy, 2005_

Donatello Redfield is on vacation in Italy. He often goes there in the autumn, as he's a huge fan of their wine, paired with gelato. He throws a dart on the map, and goes there, visiting as many vineyards and gelato shops available, and when he finds a particularly good pairing, he orders some to be shipped back to Munich.

Donatello is friendly with the majority of the winemakers, as many of them have a Donatello original clock. And the gelato makers, while they aren't as familiar with him, he definitely got the chance to drum up more business with them when he told them who he was. One winemaker, over a glass of merlot, suggests Donatello might like the circus that's in town, only a few miles away from here. Very odd, and it only opens at night.

But the clock at the front, the very detailed clock with all these fascinating parts that make up it, this is what the winemaker thinks will interest Donatello the most.

“Looks a lot like one of yours.” The winemaker says, gesturing to his own Donatello original, shaped like a wine bottle with the vineyard's label on it pouring into a glass, while simultaneously having grapes fall into it.

Donatello is interested, and after an early meal, he puts on his jacket and gloves and starts walking in the general direction he was given. It's not particularly hard to find, as he's not the only one going towards it, and once they're just on the outskirts of town, the circus is unmistakably there.

It's glowing. That's the first thing Donatello thinks when he sees Le Cirque de la Chasse, about a mile away, before he even sees what it's called. But he keeps walking towards it, through the Italian countryside on a very chilly evening, like a magnetic force.

There's a very impressive crowd right outside when Donatello makes it to the gates, and even so, he still can't miss his own clock, even if he hadn't been told where they put it. It's right across from the ticket booth, inside the gates. It's almost 7 at night, and he stands back, letting others go ahead of him so he can see that beautiful Impala come out of its hiding place, as the figures inside it get out and answer their phones, as the werewolf’s fur twitches and the clock chimes seven times, so quiet in comparison to the circus itself.

Donatello couldn't be more thrilled. The clock is as magnificent as it's ever been, and whoever's in charge of keeping it in working order clearly knows what they're doing. Briefly, he wonders if the clock might need a stronger varnish, and regrets not asking where exactly the clock was going to be put, although it still looks fantastic despite that. He keeps looking at it as he waits in line, wondering if he should contact that Castiel character about it, if he still has that address from Ohio in his files in Munich.

When he finally gets to the booth, he gives the correct amount of euros to the seller, who's more dressed like a night at the opera, rather than just selling tickets. As the woman hands over the ticket, Donatello asks, first in Italian then in English when she doesn't understand, if she would know who to speak to about the clock. She gives no answer, but there's a smile on her eyes when he identifies himself as the one who made it. She returns his euros along with his ticket, despite his best efforts to protest, and after a few more seconds, hands him a business card with them.

Donatello thanks her, moving out of line and off to the side to read the card. Even the paper the card's made of is if high quality, a black background embossed with silver.

_Le Cirque de la Chasse_

_Gabriel Novak, Proprietor_

The back boasts an address as well, and Donatello puts it in his pocket for safekeeping along with his ticket and saved euros, and walks right into the circus.

He starts wandering aimlessly, just mildly curious about the home of his _Soprannaturale_ clock. Maybe it's just because of all that time he spent on said clock, but as he keeps wandering, the circus feels cozy, almost familiar to him. The color scheme, the winding passages. Donatello can't believe how well his clock and the circus complement each other.

That first night he only visits a small handful of tents, watching fire-eaters and sword swallowers, sampling very good wine in an area marked **Winery, Mature Visitors Only**

When he asks, the bartender, who introduces himself as Benny Lafitte, informs him that it's a local wine, and notes the vintage.

By the time Donatello finally leaves the circus, it's only out of pure exhaustion; he's head over heels in love. He goes back two more times before going home to Munich, insisting he pay admission full times.

He writes a letter to Mr. Novak the moment he gets back, thanking him for giving his clock the perfect home, and for all the wonderful things he'd seen at the circus. He can't stop gushing over it, and he's come to the conclusion there's no right or wrong way to enjoy it, and hopes one day the circus can come to Germany in the future.

Many weeks later, he gets a letter back from Mr. Novak's assistant, telling him that Mr. Novak greatly appreciates Donatello's compliments, especially from someone with such talent. The letter speaks highly of the clock, and assures Donatello that should anything be amiss, he'll be contacted at once.

Unfortunately, that's all the letter talks about, and there's nothing about where the circus currently is or if it'll ever come to Germany.

Donatello's disappointed, but that doesn't stop him from thinking about the circus frequently, more often than not when he's working. Many of his new works now have combined metals, or have scenes he's seen from the circus, acrobats, werewolves, or even a fortune teller that lays out her cards.

Though he often worries he'll never be able to do the circus justice in these small tributes.


	26. In Peaceful Dreams

_San Francisco, November 2006_

Even though the Banes twins are allowed to wander around backstage, which is plenty big for all performers to live in when not performing, if they ever get bored and want to explore the circus, they need an actual chaperone. They complain about this constantly, but their father, Asa Fox, holds firm, saying that they have to be at least 8 years old before they're allowed to wander about by themselves.

Max, the more smart-alecky of the two, constantly asks if 8 years old is a combined total, and if so, then they already qualify.

But every time they complain, they're reminded just because their lives are a little out of the norm for children, doesn't mean they don't need structure.

For now, they have a number of chaperones, and tonight, their chaperone is Sam, the illusionist. It's not often he's put in this position, but the twins seem to have taken a shine to him. And on this particular night, Sam has plenty of time in between his shows, so he can chaperone the twins for a while.

Nobody recognizes Sam without his fantastic ever changing suit on, even those who got a good look at him up close. If anyone bothers to give them a second look, it's to wonder if the twins’ hair are so black, why is his so much lighter. But besides that, Sam's just another patron in jeans and a t shirt, checking out the circus just like everyone else.

They start in the Immersive Reality, though the twins eventually get bored with just watching the screens to see where Sam chooses to go, taking his time once he's decided. Before Sam's really enjoyed half the places he's wanted to go this time, the twins are already begging to go on the Carousel.

They argues over who gets to ride the witch, but Max relents when Sam starts talking about the story of the Shojo behind it, which sounds ten times cooler than just any old witch. The second they get off, they ask to ride again. Once this request is fulfilled, and they're wandering through the magnificent tunnel, they somehow wind up on a werewolf and a reaper without one complaint.

Once that ride is finished, Max gets hungry and asks for a snack, so they walk to the courtyard. When Sam gets him a bag of popcorn, Max insists on having butterscotch on his, he refuses to eat it plain.

The vendor dipping apples into several different dips for candy apples obliges him, drizzling it carefully over most of it. A few patrons notice this, and ask for the same.

Ali, however, does not share her twin brother's hunger. Instead, she's distracted by something, so they start walking away from the courtyard, and Sam asks her what's wrong.

“I don't want her to die.” Ali says, tugging on Sam's wrist.

Sam stops walking, reaching out his other hand to stop Max from moving, who's too caught up to notice anything but his popcorn.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” He asks Ali.

“They're going to bury her.” Ali explains. “That makes me sad.”

“Who's 'her’?” Sam asks.

Ali struggles to answer as she tries to think.

“I...don't know.” She says. “She looks like everyone else.”

“Ali, honey.” Sam says, pulling the twins aside and bending down to talk to them face-to-face. “Where is she? Where did you see her?”

“In the con-consterations.” Ali says. She stands up on her tiptoes and points up to the sky.

Sam glances up at the sky, and realizes what Ali was trying to say, before turning her attention back to Ali.

“How often do you see things in the _constellations_?” He asks, correcting her pronunciation.

“Sometimes.” Ali says. “Max can actually read people.”

Sam turns to Max, who's still munching away on his butterscotch popcorn.

“You read people?” Sam asks him.

Max nods, mouth full.

“What do you see?” Sam asks.

Max just shrugs, and swallows.

“Things they think about.” He says. “Places they're going to be.”

He shoves another handful of popcorn in his mouth.

“That's very interesting.” Sam says. The twins are fond of making stuff up, but this just might be real. “Can you read me?”

Max squints as he tries to read him, simultaneously chewing his popcorn.

“Rooms that feel hot and stuffy.” He says. “A room that catches fire. A ghost with a bald head that follows you around and--.”

Max suddenly has to stop, and frowns.

“I can't see anything now.” He says. “I can't read you at all. How did you do that?”

“Some things are none of your business.” Sam says.

Max pouts for a moment, but the second he's putting more popcorn in his mouth, it's all but forgotten.

Sam's gaze goes from the twins back to the courtyard, where the bonfire lights up the edges of the tents, casting shadows of passing patrons as they walk by.

The bonfire is like JFK's eternal flame, always burning, never going out.

Even when the circus packs and leaves, it still burns bright. Every trip it takes on the train, the flames are ever present, in its cauldron.

It's done so since the the lighting ceremony on opening night.

And Sam now knows somehow, at the moment it was lit, it started something that's tied to the circus and everyone that's a part of it.

That includes the twins.

Max was born before midnight, right at the end of the previous night. Ali was born after the new day had already begun.

“Ali.” Sam says, attention back to the little girl who had been scratching at her wrist. “If the constellations show you something that might be important, tell me, alright?”

Ali nods, her dark hair bobbing. Then, she leans in to ask Sam a question, her eyes scared.

“May I have a candy apple?” She asks.

“I want more popcorn.” Max whines, shaking his empty bag.

Sam takes the bag from him and folds it into complex shapes while the twins watch, until it's not a paper bag at all, but a bird, and it flies away into the night. While the twins clap, Max’s hands are not covered in butterscotch anymore, although he's too preoccupied to notice.

Sam studies the twins for a moment, while Max tries to figure out how the bag became the bird, and Ali keeps looking up at the sky.

It's insane. Sam knows it's insane, but if it means they stay close to him, so he can keep watching them, now that these talents have made themselves known.

“How would you like it if I taught you things like what I just did?” Sam asks them.

Max is immediately on board, nodding his head. Ali hesitates for a moment, but then eventually nods.

“Then once you're old enough, I'll do just that, but let's keep this between us.” Sam says. “Can you do that for me?”

The twins nod in unison, and Max has to tie his shoes for a moment.

They follow Sam enthusiastically as he leads them back to the vendors for a candy apple and more popcorn.


	27. Wishful Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why the hell did I have to come all the way out here to find out about this?” Dean ignores her and holds out his notebook, and in the dim lighting, she can see a few trees. Unlike the many trees in the gardens he's drawn, these are very different, in that there are red tags tied to oranges dangling from the branches.

_Italy, May 2007_

When the curtains of the fortune teller’s tent part, it's Dean who enters, and Pamela immediately stands up in her costume to greet him.

“What are you doing here?” She asks.

“Why the hell did I have to come all the way out here to find out about this?” Dean ignores her and holds out his notebook, and in the dim lighting, she can see a few trees. Unlike the many trees in the gardens he's drawn, these are very different, in that there are red tags tied to oranges dangling from the branches.

“Those are the Chinese Wishing trees.” Pamela says. “They’re brand new.”

“I know that.” Dean snaps. “Why am I just seeing them now?”

“I've been so busy, I haven't had a moment to write.” Pamela says. “And I had no way of knowing if it was Sam or you. It looks a lot like something you'd do. It's very beautiful, the way there's 4 different trees for different wishes. One for success, one for love, and two for anything. There's even fireworks when another wish lands on a branch."

“It's Sam.” Dean says flatly, pulling the notebook back.

“How can you know?” Pamela asks.

This makes Dean pause, looking at the sketch, annoyed that his own drawing makes the tree look like an elementary school art project.

“I just...know.” he says. “It's like knowing when a car accident is about to happen, that split second when you know what's going to happen, but you can't stop it. The second I walked into that tent, I could feel it, and it only got stronger when I got closer to the trees. I don't think someone like you would feel it if you weren't in tune like me and him are.”

“Is it possible Sam can feel what you're doing in the same way?” Pamela asks.

Well, up till now, Dean actually hadn't thought of that, but it seems plausible. Somehow, the idea doesn't bother him as much as he thought. In fact, he's pleased by this.

“I have no idea.” Is all he tells Pamela.

Pamela sits back down at her seat behind her table.

“Well then.” She says, “Now that it's there, it's free game. You can do anything you want.”

“That's not how it works.” Dean says. “Anything Sam makes, I'm not allowed to use for my benefit. We need to stay separate. It's like a game of chess. I can't just knock his pawns off the board. No, instead I have to fight back with my own pawns whenever he moves.”

“But that would mean there's no endgame.” Pamela says. “How are you supposed to checkmate a circus? I'm completely lost.”

“No, now that I think about it, it's not really like chess.” Dean says, only now realizing what he'd been struggling to understand all these years, and having no idea how to explain it. He sees a few if Pam's tarot cards face up, and reaches for one.

“It's like this.” He says, pointing at the woman's face in the moon, above the lobster and two wolves, _To Fengári_ inscribed on the bottom.

“We’re both working with our intuition, and making the pictures in our heads come to life, and having faith the things we make will put us ahead of each other.”

A model of the moon and wolves appears on the table, one with light fur like Dean's, the other dark like Sam's.

“So the point is to outdo each other's imagination?” Pamela asks.

Dean nods, turning the pages of his notebook, but he keeps finding himself going back to Sam's trees.

“But if you keep coming up with things faster than your opponent can make them,” Pamela says, watching the howling wolves. “Won't that be cheating?”

“It's not an exact comparison.” Dean says, and the wolves and moon vanish.

Pamela frowns at where the models used to be.

“How long are you supposed to be doing this?” She asks.

“Beats me.” Dean says. “Why? Do you want to leave?” He asks, looking right at her, not so sure he'll like her answer.

“No.” Pamela says. “Don't...don't be silly. I like my job here, I really do. But I need to understand. If I could, I could be a bigger help.”

“You already are.” Dean says. “Right now, the one advantage in my corner is that Sam doesn't know it's me. Sam has two; he reacts to whatever new tent pops up in the circus, and I have you watching him.”

“But he hasn't reacted.” Pamela argues. “He's a bit of a loner. He reads books like they're going to be burned. The Banes twins practically worship him. He's been nothing but nice to me. The only out-of-the-ordinary thing he ever does is his performances. You seem so sure the new attractions are his doing, but I never see him doing anything. How do you know the wishing trees aren't Castiel's work?”

“Castiel is an impressive mechanic, as well as an architect, but there's no way those trees are him. I do know, however, that Sam embellished the Carousel, that I know for a fact. Not even Castiel can make a painted mechanical creature _breathe._ These are actual trees, even if there's no leaves on them.”

Dean goes back to his sketch, tracing the crude lines with his fingertips.

“Did you try it out?” Pamela asks quietly.

Dean just closes his notebook, not answering.

“Does he still perform every 15 minutes?” He asks, pulling his cell phone from his pocket to check the time.

“Yeah, but...are you actually going to see his show?” Pamela asks. “It's such an intimate tent, he'll see you in a second. Isn't he gonna know something's up with you there?”

“He won't even know it's me.” Dean says. He drops the phone back in his pocket. “In the future, next time a new tent shows up, please let me know.”

He turns and starts to walk away, moving so fast that the beaded curtain clacks together.

“I miss you.” Pamela says as he walks out, but the sudden change in the atmosphere has caused her candles to go out, leaving her sentiment just hanging there.

 

After the last of her clients have left early the next morning, Pamela takes her other deck from her pocket. She always has them on her, though she now has a second deck for readings, a custom-made one in the circus colors and depicting supernatural creatures.

From her personal deck she draws only one card, knowing what it is before she even flips it over. The Adam and Eve underneath a Cupid shown on the front just confirms what she already suspected.

She doesn't bother returning it to the deck.


	28. Delicious Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm going to a dinner party, and I've decided you're my plus one.” Lisa says. “You can't be a loner forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dessert mentioned in this chapter is from the book, and the images do not belong to me. I just took the two, and put them together. All rights go to the rightful owners.

_Springfield, Ohio, September 2008_

The circus has returned to Ohio, the train making it to the station just before nightfall without anyone noticing. The train cars collapse, the doors sliding open, turning instantly into rooms. Canvas tents unfold around them, ropes going slack and platforms putting themselves together.

It's assumed that a crew puts all this together while they unpack, even though some of it is obviously automated. At one point this was true, but now there's no need for a crew or stage hands.

The tents sit quietly in the dark, the circus not opening until the following night.

While most of the performers are visiting the city to meet up with old friends and attending their favorite bars, Sam Campbell is sitting alone in his backstage suite.

His rooms are extremely small compared to others hidden behind the tents, but his are mostly filled with his books and furniture. Different candles are lit and sitting on every surface, showing off the ravens in their cages hanging among the curtains and tapestries. It's a small sanctuary, but it's cozy and quiet, and more importantly, it's his.

So when he hears the knock on the door, he's surprised.

“This how the rest of your night is going?” Lisa Braeden asks, looking at the book Sam's reading.

“You got a better idea?” Sam asks. It's rare Lisa shows up just for the sake of visiting.

“Matter of fact, I do. I'm going to a dinner party, and I've decided you're my plus one.” Lisa says. “You can't be a loner forever.”

Sam tries protesting, but Lisa holds firm, taking out one of Sam's nicest suits, a navy blue number with a gold vest and bow tie.

“Where is this dinner party?” Sam asks, but Lisa won't give any more details. It's too late at night for them to be going to a play or a movie.

So when he discovers they've arrived at Gabriel's house, he laughs.

“You could've told me we were going to a Dessert Dinner.” he says to Lisa.

“If I told you, you wouldn't be surprised now, would you?” Lisa responds.

Sam's only ever been to Gabriel's house once before, and that was more of a pre-opening thing than an actual Dessert Dinner. But despite seeing the place only a handful of times between when he auditioned and the official opening night, it turns out he's actually more familiar with the guests than he thought.

His last minute arrival with Lisa surprises them, but Gabriel greets him just as warmly as an invited guest and brings him to the parlor with a glass of wine before he can even get an apology out.

“Set up another place for dinner.” Gabriel tells Dean, before leading him around the room to ensure Sam's already met everyone. Sam finds it a little strange Gabriel doesn't remember.

Anna Milton is as nice as ever, her dress looking like it has autumn leaves sewn into it.

The Harvelle women and Castiel are all joking how they're all dressed in blue, which wasn't planned at all, so the fact that Sam's wearing it is just confirmation that it's the latest style.

There's some talk about someone else possibly showing up, but Sam doesn't manage to catch the name.

He feels like the worst kind of wallflower, the one person here who hasn't known them as long as they've known each other. But Lisa is more than happy to include him in the conversation, and Castiel listens to what he as to say as intently as he has with the others, so intently that even Ellen takes notice and starts to tease him about it.

Sam already knows Castiel quite well, having met him several times and written several letters to each other over their collaboration with the Carousel, Castiel is surprisingly good at pretending they're only acquaintances.

“Remind me why you're not an actor?” He whispers to Castiel when Sam's sure nobody can hear them.

“You're right.” he replies, deadpan tone giving nothing away. “Too bad I missed my shot.”

Sam hasn't talked to either of the Harvelle women for extended periods of time--Jo is much more bubbly than her mom--and tonight he finds out their influence on the circus. While Anna's costumes and Castiel's engineering are obvious, the Harvelle women's touches are more on the subtle side, despite the fact that it's present in every part of the circus.

The smells, the sounds, just the right ambience. Even how heavy the curtains are when they're lifted. It's because of them it all looks so flawless.

“We try to hit it from all angles.” Ellen says.

“With more emphasis on others.” Jo throws in.

“Very true.” Her mom agrees. “People often underestimate the power of scent, and when it's most effective.”

“When it comes to atmosphere, these two are geniuses.” Gabriel tells Sam as he comes back to the room for conversation, switching out his empty wine glass with a filled one. “Don't know how they do it, but they're brilliant.”

“The secret is to not let people know that it's staged.” Ellen whispers. “To make it look like a complete coincidence.”

“That's what ties it all together.” Jo concludes.

It doesn't escape Sam's attention how they seem to be doing the same thing here. Sam highly doubts these get-togethers would keep going after the circus opened without the Harvelle women's atmospheric touches. They know exactly what to say to keep people talking, without a lull in the conversation.

In comparison, Castiel is quite serious, keeping everything in balance.

Sam sees a movement in the corner of his eye, and while it could be easily explained by the many lit candles or mirrors, Sam knows what's the real cause.

Sam slips away unseen, slipping into the dark library across the hall. It's lit up only by the stained glass window, depicting an archangel.

“Is there a reason you can't let me have one night where you don't follow me?” Sam whispers quietly.

“Stuff like this is a waste of time.” His grandfather replies, the light of the setting sun lighting up part of his face and the front if his shirt doused in red.

“You are not the boss of me, nor my social calendar.”

“Your focus is skewed.” Samuel replies.

“Impossible.” Sam says. “What with the new tents and all the embellishments I added, a significant part of the circus is under my control. Which, I might add, is currently closed. And the way I see it, the better acquainted I am with the other people who made this circus happen, the better I can use my abilities to manipulate what they've already added. They're the ones that made it, after all.”

“...Okay, you have a point.” Samuel admits. Sam can tell without really seeing him in the dark that he's scowling despite that admission. “But remember what I always told you: Trust no one.”

“Go away, Samuel.” Sam says, sighing.

“Mr. Campbell?” A voice from behind him says and he turns, surprised to find Gabriel's assistant in the doorway, watching him. “Dinner's almost ready, if you feel ready to join everyone else at the table.”

“Sorry.” Sam says, eyes darting to where Samuel once was, but his grandfather has vanished. “Just got a little surprised by how big this library is. Thought nobody would care if I disappeared.”

“Don't be silly. Of course they would.” Dean says. “But I see what you mean. I've been distracted by this place one too many times.”

The cocky smile that goes with this admission surprises Sam, as in the previous times he's met up with Dean, Dean's only looked at.him with mild curiosity or nervous civility.

“Thanks for tracking me down.” He says, hoping that someone disappearing into the dark while the rest of the guests talk among themselves isn't so unusual at Gabriel's house.

“Probably thought you disappeared in a puff of smoke.” Dean jokes as they walk back across the hall. “Decided to see for myself if they were wrong.”

He hold the door open for Sam as he follows him to the dining room.

Sam's place at the table turns out to be between Gabriel and Lisa.

“Much better than another night alone, isn't it?” Lisa asks, smiling when Sam admits she's right.

As the courses continue, when Sam's not distracted by the amazing food, Sam tries to guess how the guests all know each other. Reading their behavioral patterns, taking note of their emotions lying underneath the laughing and talking, looking for gazes that last a second longer than necessary.

Every look Gabriel gives his good-looking assistant becomes less and less subtle with every glass poured, and Sam suspects Mr. Winchester knows about it already, although Dean's very good at staying quiet.

It takes three plates of sweet stuff before he figures out which Harvelle woman Castiel is more fond of, but by the time plates of mooncakes filled with red bean paste come out, he's sure of it, but he can't be sure if Ellen's aware of it.

Anna Milton is just referred to Anna by everyone, though she feels like so much more than just a former student. When Sam calls her Miss, everyone's a little surprised.

“Such a polite young man.” Anna says with a smile on her face. “We'll have to loosen up that cummerbund if we want you to keep coming as one of our guests.”

“Um, I think that should wait until after dinner, don't you?” Sam says, blushing, while the rest of them laugh.

“Sam is one of our guests regardless of how tight his cummerbund is.” Gabriel says. “Write that down.” He adds, pointing at Dean.

“Sam's...cummerbund.” Done.” Dean replies, prompting everyone else to erupt in laughter again.

Dean catches Sam's look with a small smile he remembers from earlier before he turns back, disappearing into the background again, almost like when his grandfather disappears.

Then the next dish arrives, and Sam goes back to listening and watching, in between trying to figure out what's in the sweet marinade that's wrapped in buttery pastry.

But there's something about Jo's face that keeps bothering Sam. There's some sort of fear, or maybe sadness in her eyes that shows up then disappears just as fast. One minute she's as happy as ever, her laugh following behind her mother's, then next moment she goes quiet staring off to the side.

It's when one of Jo's laughs sounds like there's a sob underneath that Sam realizes Jo reminds him of himself.

But then the official dessert comes out, and all thoughts go straight out the window. They're globes made of isomalt sugar, sitting on the plate and waiting to be cracked open.

Once they're all cracked open, it only takes moments for the diners to realize that just like the outside, the fillings are as different as night and day.

Spoons are swapped and shared, and many of them turn out to be as follows.

Mushroom ice cream topped with a large isomalt balloon filled with oak smoke.

An isomalt sugar apricot filled with an apricot foam, the plate decorated with concentrated coulis of apricot.

Blown sugar apple filled with apple foam.

Bombon de Chocolate. Garnished with cocoa sorbet, small spheres of crème anglaise frozen in liquid nitrogen, toasted hazelnuts and topped with a gold sheet.

A blown sugar beet filled with beet foam, plated on cocoa meringue that resembles dirt, scented with distilled earth and garnished with a beet sprout and raw beet slices.

Sam's, however, turns out to be a Flan de Caramelo, a golden sphere filled with caramel flan foam and garnished with caramel sauce.

After the dinner part of the night is done, their conversation continues over espresso and whiskey back in the parlor, until they realize the hour is way too late for all of them, except for Lisa, who points out that since they're circus performers, it's actually pretty early.

As they all say their goodbyes, Sam gets hugs just as tightly as everyone else, and given several invites to meet up while they're still in Ohio.

“Thanks for that.” Sam tells Lisa as they leave. “That was a lot more fun than I thought.”

“The unexpected is always more fun than the expected.” Lisa replies.

 

Dean watches from the window as the last of the guests leave, catching one last look at Sam before he disappears just like the rest of them.

He goes through both the parlor and dining room, then back down to the kitchens to make sure everything's back in order. The rest of the staff has already left for the night. He puts out the rest of the candles before going back upstairs to check on Gabriel.

“Tonight was spectacular, wasn't it?” Gabriel asks when Dean reaches Gabriel's room, which takes up an entire floor.

“Yes, sir.” Dean says.

“Nothing planned for tomorrow. Or later today, as the case is.”

“There's the meeting with Anna's ballet company regarding their schedule.”

“Right, right, I forgot.” Gabriel says. “Could you cancel that?”

“Yes, sir.” Dean says, marking down the request in his notebook.

“And order a dozen cases of whatever booze that was that Castiel brought. It was amazing.”

Dean nods, making this note as well.

“Are you going?” Gabriel asks.

“No, sir.” Dean says. “Too late for me to head home at this time of night.”

“Home?” Gabriel asks, like he'd never heard the word before. “This place is as much home as that apartment you insist on keeping. More, even.”

“I'll remember that, sir.* Dean says.

"Mr. Campbell is such a nice young man, isn't he?” Gabriel remarks, turning to Dean to gauge Dean's reaction.

But Dean was caught so off guard, Dean can only stammer his way through agreeing with Gabriel.

“Let's make a habit of inviting him to dinner whenever the circus comes back this way, so we can keep learning more about him.” Gabriel says pointedly, satisfied his suspicions were correct.

“Yes, sir.” Dean says, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “Need anything else?”

Gabriel just laughs and sends him on his way.

Before Dean retires to his own room in this ginormous house, one that's twice the size of his apartment, he goes back to the library.

He goes back to the same spot he saw Sam standing in, looking at the bookshelves and the stained glass window.

He doesn't’ have the first clue what Sam could've been doing here.

Dean doesn't notice the eyes staring back at him, hidden in the shadows.


	29. Männer aus Briefen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's these articles that make Donatello the unofficial president of the most dedicated followers of the circus.
> 
> Some get introduced to Le Cirque de la Chasse through his articles, while others immediately fall in love with him the second they start reading, this infatuation with the man who loves the circus as much as they do.

_2008-2009_

Donatello Redfield receives an ordinary card in the mail, but it's the contents that are anything but ordinary. On one side it's black, the other white, but the ink the information is written in is silver. On the front is printed, “Le Cirque de la Chasse”. On the back, in black ink, it states,

 

_September 29th_

_Outside Dresden, Saxony_

 

Donatello is elated. He immediately arranges everything with his clients, finishes his works in progress, and finds a cheap rental in Dresden.

He's in Dresden the day before the circus is set to open, and spends the entire day wandering the outskirts of town, wondering where exactly the circus is supposed to be set up. There's no indication that it's even coming, other than a buzzing of energy, but Donatello is pretty sure he's the only one who can feel it. It's an honor the people in charge of the wonderful circus believe him worthy of being given a heads up.

The next day, he sleeps in, in anticipation of the night to come. He leaves in the early afternoon to go eat something, the streets alive with news of the circus coming to town. There's talk about the size, and how nobody's ever seen anything like it. Donatello wisely decides to keep his thoughts to himself and just enjoy the excitement and anticipation.

Just before sunset, Donatello heads west, immediately finding it surrounded by a large crowd. While he waits, he can't help but wonder how it was possible to have the entire circus set up so quickly.

He knows for a fact the field was empty the night before, but now the circus is here, almost like it's always been. It's like it appeared out of nowhere. It's like magic, Donatello hears someone whisper, and he definitely agrees.

When the gates finally open, and Donatello is walking through, he feels more like he's coming home rather than just visiting.

He's there every night the circus is in town, while during the day he just hangs around his rental or sits in a bar with a glass of wine and a journal, writing about his experiences. So many words, enough to fill a novel, where he talks about every single detail both so he'll never forget it, and so the circus will live on in some way.

Occasionally Donatello talks about the circus with others. One of them is an editor for the paper, and after several glasses of wine, convinces Donatello to let him see the journal. Two shots of whiskey, and Donatello's agreeing to let the editor use snippets from the journal in an article about the circus.

The circus leaves in late October, but the editor is a man of his word.

The article is widely popular, so it gets a follow-up article, and then one more.

Donatello keeps writing, and over several months, the articles get published in papers around the country, until eventually, they reach as far as Sweden, Denmark and France. One finds its way to the US, under the title, “Hunting the Circus.”

It's these articles that make Donatello the unofficial president of the most dedicated followers of the circus.

Some get introduced to Le Cirque de la Chasse through his articles, while others immediately fall in love with him the second they start reading, this infatuation with the man who loves the circus as much as they do.

Some even track him down, and the get-togethers and meetings that follow are the beginning of a new secret society, for those that love the circus.

The title _Männer aus Briefen_ begins as a joke, taken from a tome that talked about a secret society with the same name, but the name sticks, and that is that.

Donatello loves it, surrounded by lovers of the circus all over Europe, and even further than that, who never get tired of talking about the circus.

Donatello writes down experiences from other _Männer aus Briefen_ to include in his stories. He makes them clocks showing their favorite attractions.

He even manages to start a trend among the _Männer aus Briefen_. He makes a comment during a dinner in Munich, where many of then are held close to home, although they're also held in other cities, that when he goes to the circus, he prefers to wear a blue blazer, so he can blend with the night and really feel like he's a part of the circus.

This spreads like wildfire, and so it becomes tradition of the _Männer aus Briefen_ going to Le Cirque de la Chasse wearing a blazer in any shade of blue, and with it they add their own spin: a pin of an Aquarian star, to signify unity.

It becomes the thing to look for when trying to spot other _Männer aus Briefen,_ for those in the loop.

There's two types of _Männer aus Briefen_ : those who have the means to attend the circus regardless of where it shows up, and those who don't but find creative ways to figure it out anyway. If there's an itinerary, it's not known to the public. The circus changes its location every few weeks, only occasionally extending a break, and nobody can really be sure where it might show up next until it's already there.

But there's a small number of _Männer aus Briefen_ who have cracked the code on the circus and the way it moves, who have made friends with the right people and are given advance notice of future appearances, and in return, they tell the others, extending to other countries and cities.

The most common means of communication among _Männer aus Briefen_ is the most subtle, but works for their benefit.

They send postcards. Sometimes they're black on one side, white on the other, written in silver. Others just use a real postcard, while still others choose to make them themselves. All the cards ever say is,

_We're going on a circus hunt…_

and give a location. Now and again there's even a date, but this isn't always attainable. Unfortunately, exactly when and where the circus will be is still not exact, and is mostly left up to chance.

Most _Männer aus Briefen_ have bases set up because they prefer to not go out of their way. _Männer aus Briefen_ who live in Canada may not be so willing to go all the way to Russia, but are willing to make an extended visit to the states, while those on the African continent may be willing to travel to Europe, but not Asia.

But still some find a way to follow the circus wherever it goes by whatever means necessary, be it money, sheer dumb luck, or calling in a favor from other _Männer aus Briefen_ . But regardless of how they get to the circus, they're all _Männer aus Briefen_ in their own right, even if they can only get to the circus when it's in their town, instead of following it. When one spots another, they smile. Or they meet at local bars to have a drink and talk while they're waiting for the circus to open.

It's these devoted fans, the _Männer aus Briefen_ , who see all the little details others might miss. They see the meaning behind chosen costumes, the details of how a sign is written. They buy miniature pies and don't eat them, wrapping them up to go and bringing them home. They can't get enough of the circus, and they long to return the moment they leave.

Often, they seek each other out. They talk about how the circus came into their lives, how those first steps into it were like a portal into a new world. Like something straight out of a storybook you'd read under the stars. They marvel at the lightness of the popcorn, the sweetness of the butterscotch. Hours alone are spent on discussing the lights and the heat from the bonfire. They smile over drinks like giddy school kids, living for when they can be surrounded by more of their kind, if only for one night. When they have to call it a night, they bid each other goodnight or even hug like they've known each other their whole lives, even if it's only the first time meeting, but as they head home, they feel less alone than they ever have.

The circus is well aware of these people, and even encourages them. If someone approaching the ticket booth sports a blue blazer and Aquarian star, more often than not they'll be waved in without paying admission, or even offered a free hot chocolate or bag of popcorn without payment. If a performer sees them, they'll often be treated to the best performance of the night. Some of the _Männer aus Briefen_ go through the entire circus repeatedly, going through every single one, watching all of the performances. Others have a favorite they'll find and stick to, choosing to stay with the Chinese Wishing trees or the carousel. They're always the ones who stay right up until closing, in the early hours when most have already gone home. Often, right before daybreak, the only color seen in Le Cirque de la Chasse is the shades of blue from their blazers.

 

Donatello receives a tsunami of letters from other _Männer aus Briefen_ , and he makes sure to respond to all of them. While many are just a one time letter, okay with one response, others turn into long time correspondences, little collections of letters.

But today, he's replying to a letter that he has found more intriguing than most of the others. Whoever this person is, writes about the circus like they were there at its conception. The letter is even more specific, going into personal opinions on the articles, things observed about the _Soprannaturale_ clock, noting details that could only be observed by standing and staring at it for several hours at a time. Donatello has to read the letter three times before he can even think of writing up a reply.

There's a postmark from Indiana, but the signature is not one he recognizes from one of the many _Männer aus Briefen_ he's met there or anywhere else.

 _Dear Mr. Campbell,_ he starts.

He hopes Mr. Campbell will be willing to write another letter back.


	30. Need Some More

_September-December 2010_

Dean arrives at Castiel's office in Ohio a few minutes early for his appointment, surprised to see the place all packed up when he shows up. Dean can't even see a desk, buried underneath the mess the office has turned into.

“Is it already that late?” Castiel asks when Dean knocks on the door, unable to come inside due to the floor going missing. “Should've packed the clock last, but it's already packed.” He gestures to the stack of boxes leaning against one of the walls. “Should've thought to clear a path, too.” he adds, pushing boxed out of the way and picking up blueprints.

“Sorry to catch you at a bad time.” Dean says. “Just wanted to meet up before you took off. Would've waited till you were settled, but I really wanted to do it in person.”

“Of course.” Castiel says. “I wanted you to have the circus plans. Well, the spare copies I had. Should be nearby.” He starts digging through the blueprints, checking the labels.

The door closes by itself, untouched.

“Can I ask you something, Cass?” Dean asks.

“Of course.” Castiel responds, still sorting his papers.

“How perceptive are you?”

At that, Cass sets down the blueprint he's holding, and turns, turning his head to the side as he regards the look on Dean's face.

“How perceptive am I about what?” He asks after there's no further words.

“How much has Sam told you?” Dean asks instead.

Castiel just looks at him curiously for a moment before speaking again.

“So you're his opponent.” He says, a small smile adorning his face when Dean nods. “I should've known.”

“So you know about the game.” Dean says.

“Only as little as someone can know about the game.” Cass says. “He walked up to me years ago and asked what I would say if he told me that his tricks are real. I told him either he's a man of his word, or he's a liar, and in all the years I've known Sam, he is no liar. Then he proceeded to ask me what I would design if I didn't have to worry about limitations such as gravity. Which eventually led to the Carousel, but you knew that.”

“Figured as much.” Dean says. “I just didn't know how involved you were in it.”

“I am a very useful person to have in either corner, the way I see it. You know how stage magicians take what's already there and give it another element it wouldn't otherwise have? Well, in our case, I do the exact opposite. I take real magic and make it look less convincing. I believe the proper term is grounding, making sure nothing looks too otherworldly.”

“What about the Observatory? Was that Sam too?” Dean asks.

“Not at all. That was completely made by hand.” Castiel tells him. “The plans are here somewhere if you don't believe me. Sam said he was looking through a book written in the 50’s he swears I gave him a while ago, and he insisted to have the design followed to the letter. But he might be the reason why it's yet to have broken down.”

“Then I suppose what you're doing for the circus is magic in its own right, Cass.” Dean says.

“I suppose it's fair to say what we do is similar, we just go about it in different ways.” Castiel says. “I would've thought whoever Sam's opponent is, wouldn't need my help. You did some amazing work with those supernatural paper animals.”

“Thanks, Cass.” Dean says. “Up to now, I tried to rely on my knack for improvising in coming up with attractions that didn't need blueprints.”

“Is that why you're here now?” Castiel asks. “A blueprint?”

“Actually, I was mainly here to ask about what you knew about the game.” Dean says. “You know, if I really wanted to, I could make you forget we ever had this conversation.”

“Dean, I assure you, that's not necessary.” Castiel says, waving off Dean's concern. “I don't want to take sides. I'm more than willing to help both of you without telling either of you about what we talk about. Nor will I talk about it to anyone else. I am trustworthy.”

Dean helps put a pile of boxes back upright as he thinks about Cass’ answer.

“Good to hear.” He says. “Though I find it a bit odd how well you're taking all this.”

Cass lets out a small laugh.

“I know compared to most, i should be the one most likely to go crazy.” He says. “But going to that first Dessert Dinner put things in perspective for me. The world's so much more than I thought it was. But was that because of what I saw Sam do to make the Carousel come to life, or because you could make me forget things, or because the circus challenges me every day to go further than any normal boundary? I can't say for certain. But I love it, and I wouldn't give it up, even if I could.”

“So you won't tell Sam who I am?”

“No, I won't.” Castiel assures him. “I give you my word.”

“Well, now that that's settled,” Dean says. “I need your help.”

 

When Castiel gets the letter, he worries Sam won't be too happy about the change to the routine, or demand to know who his opponent is, because there's no denying he knows now.

But once Castiel gets to the actual letter, all it says is a simple question,

_Am I allowed to add something of my own?_

Castiel writes back to assure Sam that this attraction is specifically designed to have things added or manipulated by either of them, so Sam can add whatever he wants.

 

Sam walks through a hallway printed with leaves, kicking his feet through the dirt as leaves land in his hair and cling to his suit. He holds out his hand, smiling as the leaves dissolve in his hands.

The Hall's lined with doors, so he chooses one completely at random, leaving footprints in the dirt behind him as he walks into a room that leads straight to a dark forest.

The place looks dark at first, but then Sam realizes it's not dark at all, somehow the sunlight is muted, making it look darker than it actually is.

It takes some time before he finds a way out, hidden in a tree's roots, and he laughs when he finds himself sliding down into the hole, like Alice in Wonderland.

When he lands, he finds himself sitting in a booth at a diner, not one he knows personally. But before he can even ask, someone sets down a plate of food, with no questions asked. It's a garden salad, with nuts and berries he wouldn't have thought he'd like in a salad. Once he's finished, he gets up and looks for a restroom, sure that's the way out in this case.

“This is bullshit.” His grandfather's voice tells Sam, although he can't pinpoint him in the busy diner. “You're supposed to be working independently, not in this crude half-assed contraption. I warned you about collaborating, and how it's the worst way to lose the game.”

Sam sighs.

“I think it's genius.” He says. “If we're supposed to be competing, what better way than with the same attraction? And technically, it's not even a collaboration. How can it be if I don't even know who it is?”

He only barely catches Samuel's face as he glares back at Sam, then Sam turns away turning his attention to the wall where the restroom door should be.

“Anyway, which one is better?” He asks. “A room with a dreary forest, or a diner? Can you even tell the difference? This is starting to get tedious. Obviously we're very evenly matched. How can you be expected to declare a winner?”

“None of your business.” Samuel hisses, closer to Sam than he thought. “This is utterly disappointing. You should've come up with something 10x better than this. You need to.”

“Doing better wipes me out.” Sam objects. “I can only make so much happen and keep it under control.”

“Not enough, clearly.” Samuel says.

“Then when will it be?” Sam asks, but he doesn't get an answer, and he discovers he's once again alone in the diner, full of faceless people.

He sinks into another empty booth, goofing off with the silverware.

 

Alone in his apartment, Dean designs new rooms with small pieces of paper. Hallways and doors made from book pages and blueprints, wallpaper and cut up letters.

He draws rooms that lead into the ones Sam has added. Stairs that lead from Sam's hallways into a completely different room.

Leaving open spaces for Sam to add.


	31. Stop This Train

_Frankenmuth, Michigan, 2011_

The office looks small on the outside, but upon entering, it becomes much bigger. The walls may be covered in frosted glass, but they're covered by several cabinets and shelves. The one table in the office is completely covered in papers and blueprints and sketches. The man sitting behind the table is almost missed altogether, nearly blending into his surroundings. The scratching of a pencil is nearly in sync with the ticking of the clock.

There's a knock on the door and the man stops his writing to look up.

“A Miss Harvelle is here to see you, sir.” An assistant calls from the open door. “She says she'll wait if you're busy.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Castiel says, setting down his pencil and standing up. “Send her in.”

The assistant moves out of the way, allowing a young woman in a black and white polka dot lace trimmed dress to walk through.

“Hello, Castiel.” Jo Harvelle says. “Sorry to just be drop by unannounced.”

“You don't need to apologise for anything, Jo. You look wonderful, as per usual.” Castiel says, gripping her hand in both of his.

“And you don't seem to be aging at all.” Jo says pointedly. This causes his smile to fall and prompt him to look away, moving to shut the door.

“What brings you to Frankenmuth?” he asks. “And where's your mother? I was beginning to think you two were joined at the hip.”

“Mom's in Atlantic City, with the circus.” Jo says, turning her focus to the room itself. “I... didn't really feel like going so I decided to travel solo. Visiting friends felt like a good plan to me. I would've called, but I just came here on a whim. And I didn't know if you'd be okay with me here.”

“Of course I am.” Castiel says. He offers her a seat, but she either doesn't see it or ignores it, walking around the room aimlessly and checking out all the scattered sketches, only stopping to fix a detail now and then.

“In our case, I think it's now harder to figure out who's just a business partner and who's a friend.” Jo says. “Whether we're people talking in code or something bigger. This is splendid.” She adds, focusing on a model of a column with a clock in the middle, with sigils instead of numbers.

“Thank you.” Castiel says. “I still have a ways to go with that one. I still have to send the plans to Donatello so he can start on the clock part. It'll look way more impressive when it's life-size.”

“Any plans for the circus in this mess?” Jo asks, now looking at the drawings pinned to the walls.

“Actually, no. Left them with Dean in Ohio. I meant to make copies, but I keep forgetting to.”

“What about your other plans? You forget to make copies of those too?” Jo asks, tracing a finger along the cabinets stacked up against the walls.

“No.” Castiel says.

“And you don't... think that's weird?” Jo asks.

“Not really.” Castiel says. “Why, do you?”

“I think a lot about the circus is weird. And that's saying something, given the life me and my mom used to live.” Jo says, picking at her dress nervously.

Castiel sits back at his desk, and leans back.

“Are you actually going to get to your point or are you just going to keep tiptoeing around it?” He asks. “I'm always too loud when I try to tiptoe.”

“Now I know you're pulling my leg.” Jo says, finally sitting down in the chair on the other side of the desk, though she keeps looking around the room. “But I think I prefer the direct approach, and I wonder if any of us can even remember what that looks like. Why did you leave Springfield?”

“Same reason you and your mother travel.” Castiel says. “Too many double takes and condescending compliments. I'm pretty sure nobody noticed the day my hair stopped turning gray was the same day as opening night, but it wasn't long before they actually did. While Anna Milton may be just growing into a beautiful woman and literally anything you can say about Gabriel can just be written off as good genes, others like you and I are under a completely different microscope because we look more or less like everyone else.”

“It's so much easier for those that can just disappear in the crowd.” Jo says, looking out the window. “Now and again Mom brings up the idea of following the circus on our own, but that would just be a band-aid solution, we're both too prone to changing our minds.”

“You could just stop.” Castiel suggests.

Jo shakes her head.

“How long before going from place to place doesn't work anymore? What do we do after that? Change our names? I...I really don't want to go that far just for a lie.”

“I don't know.” Castiel says.

“There's so much more going on than we even know, this much I know to be true.” Jo says, sighing. “I tried telling Gabriel about it, but it's like he thought I was speaking gibberish. I don't like just watching when I know something is seriously wrong. I just feel...not stuck, but close, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

“And you're after answers.” Castiel says.

“I don't even know what I'm after.” Jo responds, and for a moment, it looks like she might cry, but then it's gone. “Castiel, do you ever feel like you're in a completely different world from the one you were born in?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“I can't tell the difference between my life growing up and my life now.” Jo says, fidgeting with her dress again. “I don't like being left out of the loop. And I really don't like being forced to believe everything is normal when it isn't.”

“There's a lot of things I've seen that I might've once described as not normal. But now, I realize that that might not be such a bad thing. I choose to work with it instead, and let others do the same.”

He opens his Rolodex, and after flipping through it for a moment he pulls out a makeshift business card with a hunter's name on it. Already, looking at it upside down Jo can see the name John Winchester on it. Castiel picks up a pencil and writes down a phone number beneath the name.

“I honestly don't think we even knew what would happen that night.” He says. “But if you really feel like you need to dig deeper, John might have some answers, though I don't know what he's willing to share.”

He slides the card across to Jo. She looks at it for a moment before sliding it into her purse.

“Thank you, Castiel.” She says without making eye contact. “I really appreciate this.”

“You're welcome, Miss Harvelle.” Castiel says. “I hope you find what you're after.”

Jo just nods absently, and then they make polite conversation for several more hours. Even though he tries to invite her to dinner, Jo politely declines and leaves by herself.

Castiel once more goes back to his drawings, his pencil scratching and clock ticking once more in sync.


	32. The Sunglasses in the Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On this night, there's a sign on the gates of Le Cirque de la Chasse, hung with ropes that wind around the bars above the lock. The letters are big enough to be seen from a distance: Closed due to heatwave

_Masaryktown, Florida, March 2011_

On this night, there's a sign on the gates of Le Cirque de la Chasse, hung with ropes that wind around the bars above the lock. The letters are big enough to be seen from a distance.

 

_Closed due to heatwave_

 

Is written, in loopy cursive surrounded by smiling suns. People read the sign, some more than once, then look up at the sky, confused. They wait to see if the circus will be unlocked anyway, but it doesn't, so the people disband, to find something else to do with their time tonight.

An hour later is when it hits, a blast of heat hitting everyone still outside, despite the slowly fading sun, making the circus tents sweat.

 

On the other side of the circus, at a part of the gate that opens despite it looking completely different from the rest of the gate, Sam Campbell steps out from the shadows of the tents and into the heat, putting his night vision glasses with no difficulty. They're a good pair of glasses, and once they're on his nose he has no trouble seeing in the dark. Though the upper half of his wine colored suit starts to feel uncomfortably warm to the point where he starts sweating, possibly even sweating through the suit.

He walks without anyone bothering him into the city, though there's not really any reason to be bothered in this nighttime heat. He passes other people in the streets, all of them stripped down to tank tops and t shirts.

Eventually Sam stops at a random lit up cafe, crowded and alive despite this time of night. He takes off his night vision glasses to the pile of sunglasses one of the unoccupied tables.

There's more unoccupied tables, but Sam chooses an empty chair that's right across from Pamela, where she's sipping a drink and reading a book.

Sam's not too sure if he likes the fortuneteller, because he doesn't know what to make of her. He's always had a great dislike for anyone who prey off of people's feelings and emotions for money. And now and then, Pamela has the same look in her eyes as Lisa's, like she knows more than she's willing to share.

Although maybe it's not as unusual for a fortune teller.

“May I sit here?” Sam asks. Pamela looks up, surprise on her face, which is quickly replaced with a smile.

“Sure.” Pamela says, closing her book. “Can't believe you chose to come out in this heat, I only just got here before it hit, so I decided to wait it out. I was supposed to meet someone here, but it looks like he's taking a rain check, ironically.”

“Don't blame them.” Sam says, pulling off his jacket and vest, and the sweat dries instantly. “It's like walking through the desert out there.”

“So you're avoiding the heatwave party?”

”I showed up before ducking out, wasn't in the party mood. Besides, why waste a good opportunity to leave the circus when I can, even if it means almost getting heatstroke?”

“I like getting away when I can too.” Pamela says. “Did you bring on this heatwave to have the night off?”

“No, of course not.” Sam says. “But if I did, I definitely overdid it.”

Even as he talks, Sam's sweat soaked shirt is drying, the shirt's color returning to a pure white, although it's not entirely clear if it's from the air conditioner or if Sam's doing it himself.

Sam and Pamela chat about the weather, the city, and books, not exactly avoiding circus talk, but doing their best to steer away from it. For a moment they're just a man and a woman, not an illusionist and a fortune teller, something they rarely get to be these days.

Then the door bangs open, sending a blast of hot air inside that's met with loud protests from other patrons.

A frazzled waitress stops by their table, and Sam orders a chamomile tea. When the waitress leaves, Sam takes a good look around the room, almost like he's looking for someone specific, but isn't entirely sure who.

“Something wrong?” Pamela asks.

“No, nothing.” Sam says. “Just feel like someone's watching. But I'm probably just paranoid.”

“Could be someone recognizes you.” Pam suggests.

“Doubtful.” Sam says as he surveys the other people in the cafe with them, but not seeing anyone outright staring at them. “People are comfortable with not seeing anything out of the ordinary. I'm pretty sure a lot of weird kooks show up here, especially with the circus in town. Makes it all the easier to disappear.”

“I find it rather amazing how nobody recognizes me without my costume on,” Pam says. “A lot of people in here I know I've given readings over the past few nights, and not one of them has said a word. Maybe I don't look as eccentric when I don't have my setup in front of me. Or maybe they just care about what the cards say, not the person showing them.”

“You have them on you?” Sam asks.

Pamela nods. “Why...were you interested?” She asks.

“If it's not too much trouble.”

“You’ve never asked for a reading before.”

“I actually prefer to be in the dark when I think of my future.” Sam says. “But tonight, what the hell.”

Pamela hesitates, looking around at the other patrons, mostly artistic folks sipping black coffee and discussing art.

“They won't care.” Sam says. “This I can promise.”

Pamela turns her attention back to Sam, then pulls out her deck from her bag. Not the circus issued one, her personal deck, slightly faded, but still functional.

“Those are something.” Sam says as Pamela starts shuffling, watching how she shifts the cards.

“Thanks.”

“Weird. Isn't there supposed to be 78?”

Pamela halts for the smallest of seconds, but it's enough for a card to fall out of the deck and on the table. Sam picks it up, taking a brief glance at the angel holding two cups and pouring water from one into the other on the surface, before handing it back to Pamela, who replaces it and continues to shuffle, the cards changing hands just as seamlessly.

“It's...lost.” Pamela explains.

Sam doesn't push her for more.

The waitress brings Sam's chamomile tea, not even looking at the cards before walking away again.

“Was that you?” Pamela asks.

“Yes, I had her look the other way.” Sam says after gently blowing on the surface of his hot tea. It's not exactly what he meant, but the little “forcefield” he's put over them is hard to explain. That paranoid feeling hasn't disappeared even with it, and it bothers him.

Pamela finally stops shuffling and lays the deck face down on their table.

Sam cuts the deck into three piles without Pamela telling him, carefully holding the edges as he places them all in a row.

“Which will it be?” Pamela asks.

Sam looks at the piles critically while he sips his tea. After a moment, he goes for the center one. Pamela stacks the deck again, keeping the chosen stack right on top.

The cards placed don't make a lot of sense at a glance. A few cups. Two of swords. _Tin Ypsilí Iéreia_ , the High Priestess.

Pamela barely hides her sharp exhale as she lays _Tin Ypsilí Iéreia_ over the other two, covering it with a cough. Sam doesn't seem to notice.

“Sorry.” Pamela says, after staring at the open faced cards for a few moments. “Sorry the translation is a bit tough.”

“Take all the time you need.” Sam says.

Pamela pushes the cards, looking at them one after another.

“You carry quite a few burdens. A heavy weight on your shoulders. Things you've lost as well as things you feel are missing. But you still move forward, towards the changing times and new discoveries. Other things are at work here to keep pushing you forward.”

Sam's face gives away nothing. He just looks at the cards and only occasionally looks back at Pamela, listening but not giving himself away.

“You're...not exactly battling, there's probably a better word for it, but there's some sort of game going on with something, or someone, you can't see, that's deliberately trying to not be found.”

Sam just smiles.

Pamela sets another card down.

“But not for long.” she says.

This definitely catches Sam's attention.

“When?”

“Unfortunately, I can't figure out the most accurate timeline from just cards, but I'd say pretty damn close. Almost immediately, I'd even say.

Pamela pulls another card. Temperance again.

“There's emotions.” She says. “Very deep, but you're only on rock bottom, while it's waiting to pull you into the light.”

“Very intriguing.” Sam remarks.

“It's not really good or bad, but it's... intense. Pamela pushes the cards around, the Chariot and the High Priestess surrounded by wands and cups.

 

“It's almost like they're contradicting themselves.” She says after a moment. “Like there's love, but also loss. If one falls apart, the other is there to hold them through it. Like a beautiful sadness.”

“That is definitely something I want to look forward to.” Sam says in a deadpan tone, and Pamela smiles, looking up from the cards, but still unable to read Sam's expression.

“I'm sorry I can't clarify more than that.” She says. “If I can later I'll be sure to talk to you, sometimes I need to think longer than the average reading to really understand what the cards are saying. They're...not vague, exactly, but they're complicated, which allows for more roads to take.”

“You don't need to apologise to me. I'm actually not that surprised by what you've told me. Thanks for the reading.”

Sam then chooses to change the subject, the cards staying where they are and Pamela doesn't move to put them back in the deck. They talk about more nonsensical things until Sam decides he really needs to get back to the circus.

“Wait until the heat breaks, at the very least.” Pamela protests.

“Trust me, I've taken up too much of your time already, and it's just a little heat. I hope your mystery person shows after all.”

“I highly doubt that, but thanks. And thanks for spending time with me.”

“The thanks is mine.” Sam says, standing up from the table as he replaces his vest and jacket. He navigates the crowd easily, grabbing his night vision glasses from the table and giving Pamela one last goodbye wave before bracing himself for the not-fun walk back to the circus in the sweltering heat.

Pamela pushes the mess of cards on the table around a little.

She didn't exactly lie. It's next to impossible to lie when it comes to the cards.

But there's no hiding the game, to the point where everything and everyone involved is now wrapped up in it, past, present and future.

But at the same time, that reading was more for the entire circus instead of just Sam, but there's so much emotion the details get lost in them. Pamela piles the cards together and shuffles them again, frowning when the Chariot makes its way back to the top, and glancing around the cafe.

While there's quite a few men in here, she definitely doesn't see the one she's waiting for.

She keeps shuffling until the Chariot is back to being buried under the others, then puts them away and returns to her book to wait out the heat by herself.

 

Outside, the heat is heavy and the streets are dark, and nearly completely abandoned, windows lighting up the streets. It's not as hot as Sam was expecting, despite the noticeable heat.

He doesn't read tarot cards very well himself, there's always too many symbols, too many pathways. But once Pamela pointed out specifics, he could definitely see all the emotions behind them, the big reveal. He doesn't know what to make of any of it, though skeptic or not, he still hopes he'll finally know who his opponent is.

He stays distracted as he walks, thinking about those cards, but he slowly realizes he's still cool. At least as cool as he was when he'd been sitting in the air conditioned cafe with Pamela. More than that, there's no sweat stains anywhere. His jacket, shirt, even the seams of his pants. There's not a single bead of sweat on his face although the heat hasn't disappeared.

Sam stops walking as he reaches the open square, stopping next to the clock that always shows the time, no matter the hour.

He stands still in the heat. The heat rolls so thick around him that he shouldn't be able to see anything in front of him, and yet he's doing exactly that, and he's not warm. He holds out his hand in front of him, almost beyond where the glasses rest on his face, but nothing feels any warmer. Those heading his way change direction before hitting his hand, bouncing off of him like he's standing in the middle of an invisible and impenetrable barrier.

That's when Sam comes to the conclusion the night vision glasses he's wearing don't belong to him.

“Excuse me, Sam.” A voice calls to him, over the barrier and the heat and from further up the street. It's a voice he knows immediately before he even turns to see Dean standing behind him, completely drenched in sweat, dripping off his face like rain. In his hand he holds a pair of night vision glasses similar to the ones he's wearing.

“I believe those glasses belong to me.” He says, nearly breathless but still smiling in a way that's too cocky to be embarrassed.

Sam looks at him in surprise. At first he has to wonder what Gabriel's assistant is doing in Florida, as he's never seen the guy out of Ohio. Then there's the matter of how he happened by these glasses.

As Sam stares at Dean, confused, suddenly what he'd been struggling with becomes clear. He remembers every single moment he's had with the guy in front of him in the heat, remembering how flustered he was at Sam's audition, and all those second looks and those sly comments that Sam had written off as harmless flirting.

As well as that feeling like Dean wasn't there anymore, disappearing into the crowd seamlessly so well Sam had genuinely forgotten he was still there.

Sam had written all of that off as just Dean being good at his job, never once stopping to consider it was all an act.

The realization makes Sam feel very foolish for not realizing Dean was his opponent all along.

This all prompts Sam to laugh, just a small snicker that gets lost in the night. Dean's smile slips a little as he watches Sam, blinking the sweat from his eyes.

Once Sam calms down, he gives Dean a small bow.

He takes the glasses off, jolted by the sudden blast of heat when they're off his face. Dean hands Sam the identical glasses.

“I'm really sorry.” Sam says, amusement still on his face.

“Hey, do you wanna go get a drink? I'd really like to talk to you.” Dean says. His face has already dried as he somehow tries to keep them both in the glasses’ barrier.

After all this time never knowing, suddenly knowing is nothing like Sam thought it would be.

He thought it would be someone he knew personally. Someone he sees all the time in the circus rather than someone who works outside it, remotely.

Sam has so many questions he wants to ask, so many things he's just dying to know despite his grandfather's warnings that it was for the best if he didn't know. But now, he feels naked, now that he's aware Dean knew who Sam was from the get-go. Dean had to have known every time they bumped into each other at a dinner party or was taking notes for Gabriel. All of those times he'd looked at Sam like he is now, with those startling candy apple green eyes.

But it's still tempting, despite everything.

Maybe if he didn't feel like he’s about to pass out from the heat, he might even say yes.

“I'm sure you would.” Sam says, returning Dean's smile with one of his own. “But I'm gonna have to take a rain check.”

He slides his own glasses right on, and as he slides the yellow lenses over his eyes, Sam vanishes, leaving no indication he'd ever been there.

Alone in the heat, Dean looks at the space where Sam had been standing before he disappears into the night.


	33. Bloody Mary's Mirrors

The sign brags Bloody Mary’s Mirrors, but that gives no clues to what lies inside. When you do, you're met with something completely unexpected.

Instead of a bunch of mirrors covered wall to wall, it looks more like a storage room full of mirrors, all in different frames.

Some are as predicted, one looking completely normal, while one doesn't show your reflection at all, or one of your accessories has disappeared.

But in one mirror, you realize your reflection in the mirror doesn't match the expression on your face. There's a creepy sadistic smile on your reflection's face, and it makes you uncomfortable. But none of it compares to when your reflection's eyes start to bleed. Automatically, you touch your face, relieved when no blood is found on your own hands.

Then your reflection begins to speak, about things you believed to have been long since buried. Things you'd rather never hear again. Quickly, you look, and you notice a crow bar leaning against a wall. You pick it up, and before your reflection can say anymore, you smash the crowbar right into the mirror, ducking to avoid getting cut. But when you look up, the mirror is completely fixed, and your bloody eyed reflection us gone, replaced with your normal reflection. Satisfied, you walk down the hall.

The hall leads to a more rounded room, with a very bright light. You realize the light is coming from a lantern that looks like someone just left there on a perch, a very old fashioned lantern you'd expect a train conductor to be holding, instead of lighting up a circus tent.

These walls are more like you were expecting, long mirrors evenly lined up with the tent's stripes as well as the decorated floor.

The further you walk, the more the room looks like there's a million lanterns instead of just the one, the stripes repeating themselves endlessly in what you know to be the Casimir effect.


	34. Jack and the Fortune-teller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He passes several more signs, but none of them look appealing enough for him to take a look inside, not after seeing the amazing illusionist's tent. When the pathway starts to turn, he finds a tent smaller than most, with a very quaint sign: Fortune-teller

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 2019_

As he keeps walking around the circus, Jack finds himself led back to the courtyard. He stops at the bonfire to watch those amazing flames, then goes to a vendor to buy a bag of chocolates to make up for the dinner he'd pushed around his plate. The chocolates he gets are shaped like bugs, with gummy appendages and licorice antennas. He scarfs down two of them straight away, then puts the rest in his pocket, hoping he won't pull them out again to find them melted together.

He goes in another direction leading out of the courtyard, one that circles away from the bonfire.

He passes several more signs, but none of them look appealing enough for him to take a look inside, not after seeing the amazing illusionist's tent. When the pathway starts to turn, he finds a tent smaller than most, with a very quaint sign:

_Fortune-teller_

That's enough for him, but then he sees the smaller, more complicated handwriting on the bottom, so Jack has to put his face up close to it just to read it:

_Learn your future. Find yourself_

Jack takes a quick survey of his surroundings. There's nobody else around here in any direction, and in this moment, the circus feels like it had all those years ago when he'd snuck into the circus during the daytime, like without the patrons, himself, and the performers, the circus is nothing.

So when he enters the tent, he's not thinking about anything except the ongoing argument about what his future will bring.

Jack winds up in a room that reminds him of an old lady's parlor, minus the old soap smell. There's several chairs, but they're all empty, and there's a small chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which distracts Jack for a moment before he sees the curtain.

It's actually not a curtain at all, just strings of beads hung to mimic one. Jack can say without lying he's never seen anything like it. The light from the chandelier reflects off the beads, and for a moment Jack isn't sure he should go through it or wait to be invited in. He looks around for directions, but there's nothing. So he stays where he is, completely confused in the empty tent, before finally, a voice calls out from behind the curtain.

“Enter.” The voice calls. It's woman, quiet, but friendly, like she already knows who he is. Jack hesitates before reaching out a had to touch the beads, which feel smooth and polished, but when he pushes, his arms go through them without a problem, like they're not heavy at all. There's a small clattering noise when the beads bump into each other, making it sound like a sudden rainstorm.

Now Jack is in a room that definitely isn't like an old lady's room at all. This room is lit up with candles, with a covered table, an empty chair on one side, and a lady in a black gypsy outfit and a rather interesting necklace on the other. On the table is only a deck of cards and a glass ball.

“Take your seat, if you please.” The woman says, and Jack steps forward to where the empty chair is and sits down. Surprisingly, the chair is actually comfortable, not like he'd expect a parlor chair to feel at all, though Jack would swear that's what he's sitting on. But then, Jack realizes he hasn't heard anyone in the circus speak before now, besides the dark haired girl. And Jack didn't realize it before, but the illusionist hadn't said a word during his entire performance.

“I realize you might be eager to start, but I'm sorry to tell you that I need payment before I can start.” She says. Jack's more than relieved he has his allowance in his pockets for unplanned expenses such as this.

“How much?” He asks.

“Whatever you think a glimpse of your future is worth.” the fortune-teller says. This makes Jack stop and consider. It's odd, no doubt about that, but also fair. He pulls out a few bills, hoping it's enough, and sets it down on the table in front of them, but the woman doesn't touch it. Instead, she swipes her hand over the money, and it vanishes.

“Now then. What would you like to take a peek at?” She asks.

“My future.” Jack says, then thinks better if it and clarifies, “My grandmother thinks Harvard is what's best for me, but my dad wants me to take over the family business.”

“What about you?” the fortune-teller asks.

“I have no idea.” Jack says.

This makes her laugh, but it's friendly, which helps Jack relax some, like he's talking to a good friend instead of a fortune-teller.

“Alright then.” She says. “Let's see what the cards can tell us about what they think.”

The fortune-teller picks up the cards and shuffles, shifting from one hand to the other. They stack on top of each other before starting over again. Then she spreads them across the table like a fan, face down and contents hidden. “Choose one card.” She says. “And there's no rush. This is the card that's going to represent you.”

Jack looks at the fanned out cards, frowning. None of them particularly stand out face down. A few here and there aren't completely lined up with the others, but other than that, they're indiscernible. He looks them up and down before he finally finds one that stands out to him. It's almost completely hidden underneath another card, in fact only a corner can be seen. He reaches to pull it out, but hesitates for a moment with his hand hovered over it.

“Can I pick it up?” He asks. He feels similar to whenever his family has important people over, and they use their best dishes and silverware, like he shouldn't be allowed to touch them, out of fear of breaking something.

But the fortune-teller nods, and Jack reaches out with one finger to slide the card out from the fan, then slowly pulls it away closer to him so it's by itself.

“Now I need you to turn it over.” the fortune-teller says, and Jack does as he's told.

On the other side is definitely not your average playing card, no hearts or clubs or diamonds to be seen. Instead there's a colorful picture, in all sorts of colors.

The picture shows a man in colorful clothing, the kind that reminds Jack of a jester. His dog is white and he's carrying a stick with a bag on the end of it in one hand, and a white rose in the other. He's standing on the edge of a cliff, and he's wearing socks, but no shoes. The man is looking out into the distance, looking like he's about to walk right off the cliff. Jack stares intently at the card, wondering what this man thinks he's doing and what this card could possibly mean for him. The name gives no clues, just its name, _O Chazós_ , written in fancy typed words.

“This is me?” He asks. The woman smiles as she swipes her hand again to stack the rest of the fanned out cards back into a stack.

“Just for the reading.” She says. “It could mean innocence or eternity. The cards are different for everyone who comes in here.”

“That has to make it confusing.” Jack says.

The woman laughs again.

“Now and then, yes.” she says. “Still want to give it a go?” Jack nods, and she shuffles the deck again, and once she's finished, this time she separates the deck into three separate piles, setting them in front of him, above the card with the strange man. “Which pile calls out to you?” She asks. Jack studies the piles carefully. Ones a little lopsided, the other has more cards than the other two. But he keeps looking towards the stack on the left.

“I'll go with this one.” He says, and despite knowing the choice is probably completely random, something just tells him this is the deck he's meant to pick. The fortune-teller nods and stacks the three piles back into one stack, taking care to leave Jack's choice right on top. She flips them over one after another, until they're all face up in a complicated pattern around the table, some on top of others, others lined up in a row, until an even dozen are all laid out. There's an assortment of pictures on them, like the man, some simple, some even more complicated. A lot of them show people in different scenes, a few have animal companions, while some just have cups and coins, and even some swords. Their reflections show on the crystal ball overlapping each other.

For a while, the fortune-teller just looks at the cards, and Jack wonders if she's reading them or they're actually telling her something; he thinks she might actually be smiling, but still trying to hide it.

“Very very interesting.” the fortune-teller says. She touches one card, a woman in flowery clothing and holding a scepter, next to a heart with the female symbol on it, and another one that Jack can't really see as well, but looks like a castle crumbling down.

 

“What is?” Jack asks, still confused. He doesn't know any women that possess a scepter, and definitely hasn't witnessed any crumbling castles. He doesn't even know if there even are any legit castles anywhere in New England.

“You've got quite an adventure in your future.” the fortune-teller says. “Quite a bit of movement. And responsibility.” She pushes a card, turns around another, and her brow furrows, but Jack's still pretty sure she's still trying not to smile. It's a lot easier to read her face as his eyes slowly adjust to the candlelight. “There's a chain of events that you're a big part of, although for now, you can't see how what you do going forward will affect them.”

“So I have something important ahead of me, but I need to go on an adventure first?” Jack asks. He should've known a reading would be this vague. But the adventure definitely sounds more like Harvard, he has to admit, even if Cambridge is quite a bit away.

The fortune-teller doesn't answer right away. Instead, she flips another card over. This time she doesn't even bother hiding her smile.

“You're looking for Ali.” she says.

“Who's Ali?” he asks. The fortune-teller doesn't respond right away, instead looks up from the cards and studies him critically. Jack feels her scrutinizing him with her eyes, looking at him from the neck up. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Is your name Jack?” she asks. Jack's face goes completely pale, and all the nervousness he'd felt when he'd first arrived suddenly returns. He swallows hard before he manages to answer.

“Uh...yes?” he says, but phrases it as a question, like he's not entirely sure he should answer honestly. The fortune-teller smiles at him, a smile that makes Jack realize she's actually not as old as he'd assumed. She's probably about only 5 years older than him.

“Even more interesting.” she says. Jack's getting pretty sick of that same word. “Well, Jack, it turns out we have a mutual acquaintance.” She looks back down at the cards. “You came here to look for her, didn't you? Although I very much appreciate you coming in here anyway.”

Jack just blinks, trying to process everything he's being told, and wonders how he could possibly know all of that, when he's literally told no one, barely even admitted it to himself.

“You know the dark haired girl?” he says, still not willing to let himself believe that's what the fortune-teller is actually saying. But she nods.

“I've known both her and her twin brother the entire time they've been alive,” she says. “She's very special, with shiny hair.”

“Is she...still here?” Jack asks. “I've only talked to her once, and that was the last time the circus came here."

“She is.” the fortune-teller says. She pushes the cards around the table again, touching one then another after that, though Jack no longer cares which one. “You'll definitely see her again, Jack. Of that, I am absolutely positive.”

Jack bites his tongue to prevent him from asking when, instead waiting to see if there's anything else she has to say about the cards. The fortune-teller moves a card now and again. She picks up the card with the strange man from where it been sitting all this time and places it on top of the crumbling castle.

“You like the circus, don't you, Jack?” she asks, looking at him again.

“It's like nothing I've ever seen in my life.” Jack says. “Not that I've really been anywhere.” he adds. “But it's astounding. I really do like it.”

“That definitely helps.” the fortune-teller says.

“Helps what?” Jack asks, but she doesn't answer. Instead, she flips another card over from the deck, placing it over the card with the strange man. It shows a picture of an infant riding a white horse under the anthropomorphized sun, with sunflowers in the background.

It's still hard to read her face in the dark, but Jack's positive she's frowning as she places the card on the table, though when she looks back at him, the frown is gone.

“You’re going to be just fine.” the fortune-teller says. “There's going to be times where it seems hard, and some surprising things thrown in your path. But in the end, I have no doubt it will be worth it. That's how life is for some lucky people. Just remember, the future is flexible.”

“I will.” Jack says. He thinks the fortune-teller looks slightly sad as she begins to gather up the cards on the table, putting them back into a stack. She saves the strange man for last, putting him on top of the deck.

“Thank you very much.” Jack says. His reading  didn't spell out a black and white future as he'd been hoping, but somehow, he doesn't feel as stressed as before. He debates on whether or not to get up to leave, not sure if this is the end.

“You're very welcome, Jack.” the fortune-teller says. “I really enjoyed your reading.”

Jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out how bag of chocolate bugs and offers it to her.

“Want a bug?” he asks. Before he can kick himself for such a silly move, she fortune-teller smiles, though once again, there's something sad in it.

“Actually yes, I would.” She says, pulling out a chocolate cockroach by its licorice antenna. The puts it on top of the crystal ball. “They're my favorite treat.” she confesses. “Thank you, Jack. Enjoy the remainder of the time you have at the circus.”

“I will.” Jack says. He finally stands up and walks back to the beads,. He reaches to pull the strings apart, but stops, and turns back around.

“Can I ask what your name is?” He asks the fortune-teller.

“Funny, I don't think anyone else who’s come in here for a reading has ever asked me that.” she says. “My name's Pamela.”

“It was very nice to meet you, Pamela.” Jack says.

“Nice to meet you too, Jack.” Pamela says. “For the record, when you leave the tent, whatever you do, make sure you go down the path on the left.” She adds. Jack nods and turns back towards the beads, pushing himself through them into the empty waiting area. This time the beads aren't as loud when they're rattled, and when they go quiet again, everything feels still, like the fortune-teller is no longer there, though she clearly is.

Jack feels strangely calm. Like he has more restraint, yet also more flexibility. Whatever anxiety he had about his future no longer plagues his mind as he leaves the tent, walking down the winding pathway between the striped tents.


	35. The Wonderful Pear Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They sit quietly, sipping their hot chocolate and leaning against the tree's trunk.
> 
> “Tell me a story.” Ali says.

_Los Angeles, November 2011_

The rooms behind the tents in Le Cirque de la Chasse are quite different to the black and white stripes of the tents. Lit up with colors. Glowing with lanterns.

The space dedicated to the Banes twins stands out from the rest. It's a kaleidoscope of colors, covered in sangria and lavender and periwinkle, to the point where the room looks like it's the inside of a huge grape, with specks of little kittens dark and bright, like the yin and yang.

Occasionally someone tries to suggest the twins should be sent off to a boarding school and get a real education, but their parents are adamant about learning in a more nontraditional setting and traveling with such amazing company.

The twins are perfectly happy with their living situation, learning about things that would never be taught in a classroom and reading any book they're given, stacks of them sitting in the cradle they couldn't bring themselves to get rid of despite having outgrown it years ago.

This has allowed them to cover the entire circus, going through and back to their own space easily, with no discomfort.

But tonight, they're sitting in a tent underneath a tree, the branches bare of any leaves.

When it’s this late, there aren't any more patrons coming in or out, and there's not much of a chance of anyone coming in here this late.

The Banes twins lean against the trunk, sipping their cups of steaming hot chocolate.

Their performances are finished for the night, so they're free to do whatever they want before the circus closes.

“Wanna try your hand at a reading?” Max asks his twin. “We could walk outside, not too cold tonight.” He checks his watch for the time. “Not too late, either.” He adds, though what they call late, someone else would call early.

Ali bites her lip to think for a moment before she answers.

“Not tonight.” She says. “Last time I couldn't see anything but a red haze. Think I need a break before I try again.”

“Red haze?”

Ali nods.

“Just a bunch of things all jumbled together.” She clarifies. “Fire, I think, something red, and yet not. A ghost. A knot suddenly coming loose, but still somehow making it tighter. Like when the cats are playing with string.”

“Did you tell Sam?” Max asks.

“Not yet.” Ali says. “No point in telling when I don't even know if there's anything to tell. They'll make sense eventually.”

“True.” Max says.

“Oh, and one more thing.” Ali says. “We're having company. Somewhere in there I managed to get that. Don't know if it was before and after the other stuff, or maybe it was right smack in the middle.”

“Do you know who?” Max asks.

“Nuh-uh.” Ali answers.

Max isn't surprised.

“What was the red?” he asks. “Do you know?”

Ali closes her eyes in remembrance.

“Paint.” she says.

This makes Max look right at her.

“Paint?” he asks.

“Spilled paint, all over the ground.” Ali answers. She closes her eyes again, but only for a second or two. “Dark red. It's all mixed up, and the red part is awful, gave me a headache when I saw it. But I like the company part.”

“I'd like company.” Max says. “Any idea when we should expect them?”

Ali shakes her head.

“Some feels soon, other parts further away.”

They sit quietly after that, sipping their hot chocolate and leaning against the tree's trunk.

“Tell me a story.” Ali finally says.

“What kind?” Max asks. He always asks this question upon the request, even if he already has a story in mind. Only people he likes get this invitation.

“A story about...a tree.” Ali says, letting the tent and the tree go quiet for the story.

“Greed is a terrible thing.” Max starts. “And that greed is something that can come back to haunt you, even if you don't see it right away. Sharing what little you have, even if it's all you have, is a generous thing to give.”

“Once upon a time a countryman came into the town on market-day, and brought a load of very special pears with him to sell. He set up his barrow in a good corner, and soon had a great crowd round him; for everyone knew he always sold extra fine pears, though he did also ask an extra high price.”

“Now, while he was crying up his fruit, a poor, old, ragged, hungry-looking-”

Ali snorts into her cup at all the adjectives, prompting Max to stop.

“Sorry.” She says. “Keep going, Max. Please.”

“A poor, old, ragged, hungry-looking priest stopped just in front of the barrow, and very humbly begged him to give him one of the pears.” Max continues. “But the countryman, who was very mean and very nasty-tempered, wouldn't hear of giving him any, and as the priest didn't seem inclined to move on, he began calling him all the bad names he could think of.

“‘Good sir’” said the priest, “‘You have got hundreds of pears on your barrow. I only ask you for one. You would never even know you had lost one. Really, you needn't get angry.’ ‘Give him a pear that is going bad ; that will make him happy,’ said one of the crowd. ‘The old man is quite right ; you'd never miss it.’ ‘I've said I won't, and I won't!’ cried the countryman ; and all the people close by began shouting, first one thing, and then another, until the constable of the market, hearing the hubbub, hurried up ; and when he had made out what was the matter, pulled some cash out of his purse, bought a pear, and gave it to the priest. For he was afraid that the noise would come to the ears of the mandarin who was just being carried down the street.”

“The old priest took the pear with a low bow, and held it up in front of the crowd, saying, ‘You all know that I have no home, no parents, no children, no clothes of my own, no food, because I gave everything up when I became a priest. So it puzzles me how anyone can be so selfish and so stingy as to refuse to give me one single pear. Now I am quite a different sort of man from this countryman. I have got here some perfectly exquisite pears, and I shall feel most deeply honoured if you will accept them from me.’ ‘Why on earth didn't you eat them yourself, instead of begging for one?’ asked a man in the crowd. ‘Ah,’ answered the priest, ‘I must grow them first.’ So he ate up the pear, only leaving a single pip. ‘Will someone fetch me some hot water to water this ?’ he asked.”

“The people, who were crowding round, thought he was only joking, but one of them ran and fetched a kettle of boiling water and gave it to the priest, who very carefully poured it over the place where he had sowed the pip. Then, almost while he was pouring, they saw, first a tiny green sprout, and then another, come pushing their heads above the ground; then one leaf uncurled, and then another, while the shoots kept growing taller and taller ; then there stood before them a young tree with a few branches with a few leaves ; then more leaves ; then flowers ; and last of all clusters of huge, ripe, sweet-smelling pears weighing the branches down to the ground ! Now the priest's face shone with pleasure, and the crowd roared with delight when he picked the pears one by one until they were all gone, handing them round with a bow to each man present. Then the old man took the pick again, hacked at the tree until it fell with a crash, when he shouldered it, leaves and all, and with a final bow, walked away.”

“All the time this had been going on, the countryman, quite forgetting his barrow and pears, had been in the midst of the crowd, standing on the tips of his toes, and straining his eyes to try to make out what was happening. But when the old priest had gone, and the crowd was getting thin, he turned round to his barrow, and saw with horror that it was quite empty. Every single pear had gone ! In a moment he understood what had happened. The pears the old priest had been so generous in giving away were not his own ; they were the countryman's ! What was more, one of the handles of his barrow was missing, and there was no doubt that he had started from home with two ! He was in a towering rage, and rushed as hard as he could after the priest ; but just as he turned the corner he saw, lying close to the wall, the barrow-handle itself, which without any doubt was the very pear-tree which the priest had cut down.”

“All the people in the market were simply splitting their sides with laughter; but as for the priest, no one saw him any more.”

As Max finishes his story, the tent goes quiet again, but the trees above them feel even more special than they had before.

“Thank you.” Ali says. “That was a really good one. Pretty funny though, but just a tad sad.”

“You're welcome.” Max says. He sips his hot chocolate, now more lukewarm than hot. He holds the cup in his hands and brings it up to his eyes, staring at it intently until it starts steaming again.

“Me too.” Ali says, holding her cup out. “I'm no good when I try.”

“Well I'm no good at levitation, so that makes us even.” Max says, but he takes the cup anyway, and focuses on it as well until it's steaming again.

He moves to hand it back to her, making it float from his hand to hers, the surface splashing slightly but otherwise moving seamlessly.

“Prima donna.” Max says.

They sit sipping their newly warmed hot chocolates, looking up at the branches reaching for the tent.

“Max?” Ali asks after a while.

“Yes?”

“Do you think we should share our knowledge with the outside world, then? Regardless of who's asking the questions?”

“I’d guess it would depend on how well you know the person who's asking the questions.” Max says.

“And if you know you can trust them.” Ali adds, kicking his boot with her black one.

Her twin laughs, the sound echoing through the tent, carrying over the branches covered in oranges tied with red tags and ribbon. Each one dangling and swinging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not make this story up, it's a story from a Chinese fairytale book, the same name as the title of this chapter.


	36. Folsom Prison Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellen attempts to invite her to an extended holiday in Italy, but Jo says no. Jo tells her mom about her small visit to Frankenmuth, and upon hearing what her plans are, Ellen puts her foot down and insists on going to meet John herself instead of Jo, and that Jo go on the holiday in her stead.

_Springfield Ohio, April 2012_

Jo doesn't realize until she's returned to her home with her mom in Ohio that the number she was given belongs to John Winchester, a hunter very few people in the hunting world don't know.

She leaves it on their coffee table for a while, only looking at it when she happens to be seated at the couch. Forgetting about it just long enough until she's reminded of it all over again.

Ellen attempts to invite her to an extended holiday in Italy, but Jo says no. Jo tells her mom about her small visit to Frankenmuth, and upon hearing what her plans are, Ellen puts her foot down and insists on going to meet John herself instead of Jo, and that Jo go on the holiday in her stead.

Before Jo leaves, Ellen suggests that they might want to think about moving, but it can wait until Jo comes back from the holiday.

Jo nods, giving her mom one big goodbye hug before she leaves in her mom's stead.

Now alone, Ellen wanders their apartment aimlessly. She attempts to read several times and gives up halfway.

Any invites for drinks or to one if Anna's shows either of them have gotten, Ellen notices that Jo has already declined without even discussing it with her.

She has trouble sleeping without her daughter there.

One afternoon, months after Jo left for the holiday, she picks up the number gathering dust on the coffee table, dials it, and upon deciding on a meeting place, she's out the door and heading to the nearest train station.

Ellen's not in the habit of visiting train stations unless traveling with the circus, but she comforts herself with knowing that this will be as temporary as any station the circus has stopped at.

She asks several people if they've seen a man fitting John's description, but nobody seems to have seen hide nor hair of him. The longer she waits, the more she wonders if she's being stood up.

“Nice to see you, Ellen.” a voice behind her says. She didn't even hear him walk up, but he's undeniably here, in his trademark leather jacket.

“Nice to see you too.” she replies.

“I thought Jo was supposed to meet me.” he says.

“She was. I had her go on holiday, and I'm here instead.” Ellen explains. She begins to explain further how Castiel sent Jo in his direction. She reaches into her pocket for the number, but she realizes it's not there.

“Something the matter?” John asks.

“Nope.” Ellen says.

“Well then, let's get to it.” He says. He waits for her to start, his face only showing mild interest.

She does her best to explain why Jo wanted to see him. How Jo suspects there's more going on than they know of. That there's things happening that can't be explained, period. She parrots the things Jo told her about, the things she talked about with Castiel. Becoming closer to not knowing what is real. Looking in a mirror and noticing their faces weren't changing.

She keeps stumbling, unable to explain exactly what's bothering her.

John's face never changes.

“What exactly is it you two are worried about that you think I can help with?” He asks when she's finished her explanation.

“We want to know what's going on. An explanation.”

He stares at her for a moment before finally speaking.

“It's just a circus.” He says. “One more impressive than most, but that's all it is. Isn't it?”

Ellen nods, but she doesn't really buy it.

“Were.you planning on catching the train?” He asks.

“Yeah, I do.” Ellen says. She'd actually forgotten all about it. She wonders what time it is, but she can't find a clock anywhere, and she's not wearing a watch.

“I'm catching one myself. Want an escort?”

They walk the short distance to the train’s platform. They both make nonsensical talk while they walk.

“I think you shouldn't worry too much about the circus.” he says when they're finally at the trains.

“You need to take your mind off if it. Wouldn't you say?”

Ellen nods again.

“Good, good. I'll be seeing you, Ellen.” He says, waving goodbye.

“Goodbye.” Ellen repeats.

He leaves her there, and when Ellen turns to follow him with her eyes, she can't find his leather jacket in the crowd anywhere.

Ellen stands near the edge of the platform, waiting for the train. She's pretty sure she didn't tell John what train she was taking, but somehow, she's on the right one.

She knows there was something she forgot to ask for Jo, but now she seems to have completely forgotten it. In fact, she doesn't really remember the conversation at all, other than the advice to take her mind off the circus.

She's not sure what, but then she sees something on the other side of the platform that catches her eye.

Someone has caught her attention, but she can't fathom who it is, or why.

Many people walk past her without giving her a second glance.

Whoever it is she's looking at, they're arguing with someone else, another person Ellen's never met. And she still doesn't know why she even cares.

The only thing she can really make out is that John has somehow put himself on the platform as well, but he's distracted, and doesn't see her.

Her vision blurs, and she can't make sense of anything now, and takes a step forward without thinking.

In the distance, a gruff voice shouts, “Look out!”

She doesn't hear the shout or the train.


	37. Notes to the Coroner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What else stands out this time around is how he's expecting a visit from Mr. Sam Campbell. He's never met the man, although they've been pen pals for many years now, and once Sam requested a look at Donatello's workshop, if it wasn't too much trouble.

_Munich, April 2012_

Donatello Redfield is always pleased when he discovers the circus is in Germany, but when it comes around this time, it's not too far away from Munich, so he doesn't even need to book a hotel room.

What else stands out this time around is how he's expecting a visit from Mr. Sam Campbell. He's never met the man, although they've been pen pals for many years now, and once Sam requested a look at Donatello's workshop, if it wasn't too much trouble.

Donatello immediately replied that it was no trouble at all, and Sam would be welcome whenever he chose to visit.

But despite all the letters he's kept over the years, all of them kept in a safe place, Donatello doesn't know what to expect from Sam's visit.

Imagine his shock when he finds the man known as the illusionist standing in the doorway.

It's unmistakably him, though he's wearing a suit covered in continuously blooming flowers, much like the other suits Donatello has seen him wear when he performs. His skin looks healthier, his hair less slicked back, but Donatello knows that face as well as his own.

“It's such an honor.” He says in greeting.

“The honor is mine. Most don't recognize me outside the circus.” Sam says as Donatello shakes his hand.

“Then most people are blind.” He says, lifting his other hand to clasp with the other. “Though I feel rather foolish for not knowing it was you this whole time.”

“I should have been more up front.” Sam says. “I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be. I should've known you weren't an average _Männer aus Briefen_ from all your little details about the circus. You know the circus better than anyone.”

“I know it better than the average person, but not everyone.”

“There's some things that go on in the circus even its own illusionist doesn't know? That's mighty impressive.”

Sam laughs, and Donatello leads him on a tour of his workshop.

It's organized just so that the front is mainly occupied by sketches and blueprints, which are right next to long tables covered in spare parts, drawers full of tools. Sam listens intently as Donatello describes the process, asking about both technical and creative aspects.

Donatello is elated to discover Sam is not only fluent in German, but Italian as well, even though they've only ever written their letters in English.

“It's easier to speak different languages than to write them down.” Sam explains. “Something in the pronunciations. I could try writing them down, but I think the results would be preposterous.”

Despite Donatello's almost white hair, he still looks a lot younger when he smiles. Sam can't take his focus off of Donatello's hands as he's shown the mechanisms. He imagines them writing the letters he's received and read repeatedly until he knew them by heart, finding it odd how shy he feels around someone he actually knows pretty well.

Donatello is watching Sam with the same focus as they look at the shelves of clocks in different stages of completeness.

“Can I ask you a question?” He says as Sam looks at a small collection of figurines waiting to be put inside their clocks.

“Absolutely.” Sam says, sure Donatello's about to ask him how he does his magic, and he really doesn't want to lie.

“We've been in the same city many different times, but you've never asked to meet up. Why did you want me to know who you are now?”

Sam looks back at the figurines one more time before responding. Donatello reaches for a figurine that's fallen over and sets it upright.

“I didn't, at first.” Sam says. “I was worried you'd treat me differently like everyone else. But after a while, I felt like I was lying to someone I considered a good friend. I've wanted to tell you the truth for a while now, and I just had to see the workshop the clock came from. I hope we can still be friends.”

“Of course we can.” Donatello says. “A man I like to believe I know very well, and a man I've always considered mysterious, turned out to be the same person. I won't lie, it is a surprise, but I actually like surprises like this one. But I'm still not sure why you reached out to me.”

“I liked your personal take on the circus.” Sam says. “It's a unique perspective I can never have because...I can only see it in my own way. I like how you see it.”

When Sam looks up at Donatello, Donatello's eyes behind his glasses are bright in the sun shining through the windows, lighting up the sawdust in the air.

“Thank you, Mr. Campbell.” Donatello says.

“Sam.” Sam corrects.

Donatello only nods before continuing his tour.

The walls are adorned with clocks that are done or one step away from being done. Clocks that just need one more coat of varnish, or some other detail. The ones by the windows already have the gears that make them move, but they always stay in rhythm, ticking in sync.

But there's one particular clock that catches Sam's attention more than the others, perhaps because it's on the table instead of hanging.

It's beautiful, no doubt about that. While the circus clock had combined metals, this one is mainly wood. Large, polished sticks crisscross to hold something, and as he looks further up, he realizes they're built to hold flames carved out of wood as well. Inside, there's still gears, and the numbers, instead of being displayed, are in the flames themselves.

However, the clock isn't moving.

“Reminds me of a pyre.” Sam says. “Did you not finish?”

“No, actually, it's broken.” Donatello replies. “I was experimenting, and the components with mainly wood are kind of difficult to work with.” He turns the clock so Sam can see for himself. “The mechanics are complicated, as it's supposed to track lightning storms. I'm gonna need to dismantle the whole thing to get it back in shape. Time I don't seem to have, unfortunately.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Sam asks, reaching for it. When Donatello gives him the go-ahead, San places a hand on one of the gears.

Sam only looks at it, not making any attempt to move it. To Donatello, it looks like Sam is looking right through it instead of looking at it.

Inside the clock, the mechanisms start turning, the gears turning into each other as the numbered flames spin in place. The way they're carved allows them to look as if the flames are wavering, but still shows the proper time.

Once slow ticking can be heard, Sam takes his hand back.

Donatello doesn't ask how he did it.

Instead, he invites Sam for a meal. They talk about the circus, how could they not, but much of the talk consists of books, art, their favorite wines and which cities they've visited are their favorites. There's very few pauses, but when there are, they aren't awkward, though it's more difficult to find the same comfort found when they write letters, switching languages now and again.

“I don't get it. Why aren't you asking about the secrets behind my tricks?” Sam asks once he's sure Donatello isn't just being polite.

Donatello considers his answer carefully before answering.

“Because I don't want to know the secrets.” He says. “I prefer to not see the gears of a clock, to better tell the time.”

This simple explanation delights Sam, so much so that he's speechless, and can only smile back at Donatello.

“Anyway,” Donatello continues, “People probably ask you that all the time. I prefer to know the man himself rather than his stage persona. I hope that's okay with you.”

“Absolutely.” Sam says.

They go to the circus together after, past the buildings with lights in the windows, and only go their separate ways when they reach the courtyard.

Donatello still can't fathom why nobody can recognize Sam as he walks among the crowd anonymously.

When Donatello watches Sam's performance, Sam only catches his eye once and gives a small blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile, but other than that, Donatello might as well just be another patron.

Later, way past midnight, Sam suddenly appears by Donatello's side as he walks, wearing a cream colored jacket.

“Your jacket should be blue.” Donatello remarks.

“I'm not exactly a true _Männer aus Briefen_.” Sam says. “I don't think it would be fair.” But as he talks, his jacket shifts to a sapphire blue. “How's this?”

“Perfect.” Donatello, although he's more fixated on Sam's eyes.

Sam takes Donatello's offered arm and they walk together along the paths, through the slowly diminishing crowd.

They repeat this routine for the next several nights, though the circus doesn't stay in Munich for very long, once news arrives from Ohio.


	38. RIP, Ellen Harvelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is just completely off-kilter to those who steal a glance at the surviving Harvelle woman. Something they just can't put into words. Like it's thrown something out of whack.

_Glasgow, Kentucky, April 2012_

The funeral is quiet, despite the turnout. There's no loud sobbing to be heard anywhere. The funeral pyre is just a bundle of sticks and branches, amongst those dressed in black or hunter clothes. Even the rain can't leave them too sad. Instead they just sit in their thoughts, a light melancholy.

That could be because it feels like Ellen Harvelle is still there, with her daughter alive and well. One half of the Harvelle women still breathing and living.

At the same time, something is just completely off-kilter to those who steal a glance at the surviving Harvelle woman. Something they just can't put into words. Like it's thrown something out of whack.

Occasionally, Jo Harvelle allows a tear to fall, but she puts on a smile and thanks everyone who showed up. She jokes how her mom would've given everyone a hard time had she not been wrapped up on the pyre, waiting to be burned. No other family members are there, though those not acquainted with the circus assume the red haired woman and man in a . trenchcoat are her brother and brother's wife. While they're wrong, neither Anna not Castiel don't bother to correct them.

There are countless lisianthus. Pink, white, even purple.

There's even a single black pearl lisianthus among the others, though nobody knows who it's from.

Gabriel only owns up to the white ones, with one pinned to his fine pressed suit that he messes with during the entire service.

When Jo talks about her mom, she's met with a bunch of laughing and teary eyed smiles.

“I don't mourn the loss of my mother, because I know she'd kick my ass if she were to see me weeping over her.” She says. “However, I'm not scared to say how annoyed I am that my mother has chosen to leave me behind to endure all of you on my own. I'm not as balanced without her. All of my senses are dulled without her. I'd rather lose a limb than my own mother. At least then she'd help me adjust to a life without a limb. We've all lost Ellen Harvelle, but I've lost the only mother I'll ever have.”

In the cemetery, there's a single performer even most of the mourners don't recognize, though the man dressed in a t shirt, over shirt, and jeans has a pair of giant sparkly pink wings attached to the back.

They're massive, and the man that wears them is still as a statue, no matter how hard the wind blows. Many of the mourners are surprised by the man's presence, but they just follow Jo's example, who appears ecstatic at seeing a real angel standing by her mother's pyre.

It was the Harvelle women that started the tradition of living statues for the circus. Performers whose job is to stand completely still, wearing costumes and usually completely painted over for the statue illusion, standing on platforms set up all over the circus in between tents. If one would choose to look at them for several hours, now and again they'd completely change positions, but the movement is so slow, many who watch would swear that they're not even human, instead very lifelike automatons.

There's several of these performers with both titles and names.

The Ringleader, also known as Chuck. 

The Fairies, known as Titania and Gilda.

The one watching over Ellen Harvelle's pyre is most often called Lucifer, though many have tried to change the name.

There's the quietest of crying as Ellen's body is salted and lit, but nobody is sure who it's coming from, or if it's just a bunch of combined noises from all the mourners.

The rain ceases for the time being, which makes the burning much easier for the ones in charge of the task. The previously damp dirt is now bone dry, and the remainder of the funeral is rushed to accommodate the impending heat.

The ceremony winds up fading out fast instead of ending on a more formal note, mourners going from one long row to a cluster of people with no indication of when they changed. Many stay to offer their condolences to Jo, though some move to seek shade from the sunlight before the heat hits them.

Pamela and Lisa Braeden stand next to each other a fair distance away from where Ellen's pyre is set up, sharing a sunbrella that Pamela holds over both their heads in one hand. Lisa insists she's fine with the sunlight but Pamela shades her anyway, glad for any company.

“What happened to her?” Lisa asks. That question has come up several times by others in hushed whispers the entire afternoon, and many answers have been given in response, though only a few leave them satisfied. Those who know the real story aren't exactly keen on telling people.

“I thought it was an accident.” Pamela says. “Hit by an incoming train.”

Lisa nods thoughtfully, pulling a cigarette and lighter from her pocket

“What really happened to her?” she asks.

“What are you talking about?” Pamela says, looking around to see if anyone is eavesdropping, but most of the mourners have disbanded. Only a handful are still here, including Sam Campbell with Alicia Banes clinging to his coattails, wearing a frown that looks more like she's pissed than sad.

Jo and Castiel stay close to Ellen's pyre, Lucifer hovering close enough to place a hand on their shoulders.

“You've seen things that can't be explained, haven't you?” Lisa asks.

Pamela nods.

“Ever stop to wonder how much harder it would be to believe in them if you weren't a part of it? So much so it might drive you crazy? Their kind is strong, but also vulnerable.”

“I refuse to believe Ellen Harvelle killed herself.” Pamela says, trying to be as quiet as possible.

“Maybe not.” Lisa says. “I'm just saying it's possible, if nothing else.” She lights her cigarette.

“It could've just as easily just been an accident.” Pamela says.

“When was the last time you had a genuine accident? Any serious injuries that put you out of commission?” Lisa asks.

“No. Nothing.” Pamela says.

“Any illnesses that left you bedridden?”

“Nope.” Pamela tries to think of the last time she even felt close to sick and she can only think of a small flu, before she even meet Dean.

“None of us have since the circus came to fruition.” Lisa says. “No deaths, either, until now. Nobody's been born since the Banes twins. Not for lack of trying, given the gossip in the acrobats tent.”

“I…” Pamela tries to speak but can't. It's all just way too much for her to take in, and she's not even sure she wants to.

“We're just ants in an ant farm, I'm afraid.” Lisa says, holding her cigarette between two fingers. “Very carefully monitored ants. Watched from every single possible angle. If one of us stops moving, there's no way it's accidental. Even if it was, that would whoever is watching us isn't doing their job as well as they should be.”

Pamela says nothing. She wishes Dean had come with Gabriel, though she doubts he'd answer any questions, if he even knew anything. Every reading she's done to try and make sense of it has always come up crazy, but surprisingly, strong emotion was always there on Dean's side. She knows Dean cares about the circus, there's no doubt in her mind about that.

“You ever done a reading for someone who could never understand what was really happening, even though it was glaringly obvious to you?” Lisa asks.

“Of course.” Pamela replies. You can't read tarot cards and not run into people like that. Lies and broken hearts that could've been easily avoided, and always refusing to believe, or not wanting to believe, no matter how nicely she tried to explain.

“It's hard to see what's going on right in front of you when you're smack dab in the middle of it.” Lisa says. “You're too familiar with all of it. Too cozy.”

Lisa pauses. The smoke from her cigarette winds around her head and up into the hot air.

“Perhaps the late Ellen Harvelle was in a position where she could see things different.”

Pamela frowns, looking back towards Ellen's pyre. Jo and Castiel have turned and started walking away slowly, an arm around her shoulders.

“Have you ever been in love, Lise?” Pamela asks.

Lisa stiffens as she sighs. For a moment Pamela thinks she's going to be ignored, but then she gets an answer.

“I've had relationships that lasted a few hours, and a few that lasted years. I have loved bikers and gentlemen. And I guess it's fair to say they all loved me, or something about me.”

That's a typical Lisa Braden response, an answer that nobody asked for. Pamela doesn't push her further.

“It'll all come crashing down.” Lisa finally says. Pamela doesn't need clarification to know what she's talking about. “There's cracks in the glass everywhere. One way or another, it's all going to break.” She pauses to finish off her cigarette. “Are you keeping up with your tempering?”

“Yes.” Pamela says. “But I think it's becoming useless.”

“Hard to tell when things like that are effective. You have an inside look at everything, don't forget. Smallest things can work the best.”

“This is definitely not doing its best.”

“Perhaps the problem is you, not the charm itself.”

Pamela doesn't respond. Lisa just shrugs, but says nothing else.

After a moment, they leave together without another word.

The pink-winged angel stays, staying next to Ellen Harvelle's pyre, holding one black pearl lisianthus in one hand.

He doesn't move, or even bat an eye. His stone cold face stays where it is.

The increasing heat causes the feathers to droop and fall from the wings, and land in the dirty ground below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fan art in This chapter doesn't belong to me. All credit goes to Jocari from DeviantArt.


	39. Pan's Labyrinth

You walk down a hallway covered in tarot cards, row upon row of cups and swords. Lanterns made from more cards are up above, swinging as you pass by them.

A door at the end of the hall leads to a glass staircase.

The stairs go up and down, and you choose up, where the stairs lead to a trap door in the ceiling.

The room you find yourself in is painted rather oddly. For one, it's painted in one long black and green continuous spiral. 

In the background, you can hear Asia's Heat of the Moment in the background. You see the door at the end of the spiral, so you walk towards it, open the door, and walk through. Only to find yourself in the same exact room again, playing the same music. No matter what you try to do, each time you go through the door again, you're still back where you started. Sometimes you'll find completely random things in the room, like a safe, or a dog that almost jumps on you. Or even a plate of pancakes with syrup, although oddly enough, now and again they change from having maple syrup to strawberry.

Finally, you decide to give up and go back the way you came.

Instead of the tarot card adorned hallway you're expecting, you're now in a completely different one, with 5 nearly identical doors to choose from. You pick one at random, still puzzled by the last room.

The first thing you notice is that you're in a forest. More than that, however, is somehow the whole place has a bluish hue to it, and if you squint, you can see a large dinosaur print on the ground.

It's hard to navigate in the dark. The second you start walking, the walls disappear.

You swear at one point you see a flash of a hooded figure holding a spear, or maybe your paranoia has gotten the best of you as you keep moving, looking for the next way out, to the next room.

You feel like something just barely pokes at your back, but when you turn abruptly, you're still alone.


	40. Animal Calypso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's occupied with what he should say, if he should say anything at all, as the crowd disbands. A man pushes his way in front of him, a woman blocks his way, and he loses sight of the girl altogether. He pushes through the cluster of people, and once he's out, both the boy and girl and their cats are nowhere to be found.

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 2019_

After leaving the fortune-teller's tent and heading to the left, per her suggestion, Jack immediately bumps into a large group of people watching a performance. At first he can't even see what it is, as there's no raised platform. Trying to look through the small spaces in between, he sees a hoop, bigger than the one used by the contortionist, held up high. As he gets closer, he sees a cat jumping through it, landing somewhere he can't see.

A man in front of him turns, and then Jack can see a young man close to his age, maybe an inch or two taller, dressed in black, with a matching hat.

On his shoulders are a pair of kittens. As he lifts his gloved hand, palm open, one kitten jumps off his shoulder and uses his hand as a trampoline, with a graceful leap through the hoop, and even manages a somersault at the height of its jump. Several patrons laugh, and a few clap, Jack included. The man in front of Jack moves to the side completely, so Jack can now see everything. He freezes mid-clap when he sees the girl who just caught the cat and is now lifting it to her own shoulder, where the other kitten sits as well.

She's older, obviously, and her black hair is concealed in a Victorian style hat. But her costume is very similar to the one he saw when he first met her: a corset with silver buttons all over it, all in black, a leather jacket to match, fishnets, and a pair of fingerless gloves.

When she turns her head, Jack catches her eye, and she smiles. Not like you would at some random member in the audience while you're performing, but the kind where you see someone you recognize, and haven't seen in years. Jack knows the difference very well, so knowing she remembers him leaves him feeling so inexplicably happy. The tips of his ears feel warm, despite the cold night.

He pays close attention for the rest of the performance, paying more attention to her than the kittens themselves, although their tricks are too impressive to ignore completely, so he switches his attention back and forth. When the act is through, both the boy and girl take a bow, to thunderous applause.

Jack's occupied with what he should say, if he should say anything at all, as the crowd disbands. A man pushes his way in front of him, a woman blocks his way, and he loses sight of the girl altogether. He pushes through the cluster of people, and once he's out, both the boy and girl and their cats are nowhere to be found.

The crowd comes down to a few people walking up and down the path. There's no other path to take, the tents lining the area, and Jack turns to see if there's anywhere they might've disappeared to. He silently berates himself for getting close enough only to have it slip away, when he feels someone tap his shoulder.

“Hello, Jack.” the girl says. She's right behind him. Her hat has been removed, her hair falling around her shoulders, and she's replaced her leather jacket with a fleece jacket and a scarf in snow white. The only real indication she's the same girl as before is the ruffles of her costume's shirt and her fishnets. Otherwise, she might as well just be another patron.

“Hi.” Jack says. “I... I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

“Oh, right. I'm sorry.” she says. “I keep forgetting we've never actually been introduced.” She holds out her bare hand, and Jack notices it's a lot larger than the one that handed him the pocket watch she'd given him as proof so long ago. “I'm Alicia, but nobody calls me that, and I'm not a fan of it anyway, so for all intents and purposes, call me Ali.”

Jack shakes her hand, and finds it's warmer than he thought, even with no gloves warming them up.

“Ali.” Jack says. “The fortune-teller told me that name, but I didn't know it was yours.”

The girl smiles.

“You've met Pamela?” she asks. Jack nods. “Isn't she sweet?” Jack keeps nodding, though he's not sure it's the right response. “She tell you anything juicy about your future?” Ali asks, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“She said a lot of things that still don't make any sense.” Jack admits.

Ali nods like she expected that.

“That's Pamela.” Ali says. “But her heart's in the right place.”

“Are you allowed to walk about the circus like this?” Jack asks, referring to the patrons that keep walking in both directions, ignoring them altogether.

“Sure.” Ali says. “Long as we're not recognized.” She gestures to her getup. “Nobody pays attention to us. Right, Max?” She turns to the guy standing a few feet away, who Jack didn't think twice about before recognizing him as Ali's co star. He's swapped his jacket for a gray one, and his hair is just as dark as Ali's.

“Unless there's something worth staring at, we're practically invisible.” He says. “Luckily our hair helps us blend in.”

“Jack, this is my brother Maximilian.” Ali says.

“Max.” He corrects.

“If you'd given me a minute, I would've gotten to that.” Ali says, rolling her eyes. “And Max, this is Jack.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jack says, holding his hand out.

“Likewise.” Max responds. “We're going for a walk. Wanna come with?”

“Please do.” Ali adds. “Nobody really comes to visit us.”

“Sure, I'd love to.” Jack says. He doesn't see a single reason why not, and is grateful they're both easy conversationalists. “But don't you have uh, circus things you have to do?”

“Not for a few more hours.” Max says as they start walking down another path. “Our little helpers need their rest. Performing takes a lot out of them.”

“They're amazing. How'd you train them to do tricks like that? I can honestly say I've never seen a cat somersault like that before.” Jack says. He notices that they're all walking in sync, managing to stay together as a group of three. He's more used to following people.

“Well ours have a unique quality to them that other cats don't.” Ali says. “But I don't think you want to know what it is.”

“It for the best.” Max adds. “It really is.”

“You seen the bigger act?” Ali asks. Jack shakes his head. “You so should. Our dad does that tent; it's down that way.” She points in a general direction to the left.

“It's a lot like ours, but with way more impressive creatures.” Max adds.

“Completely more impressive.” Ali emphasizes. “Werecats and black dogs. They're incredible.”

“And they have their own tent.” Max adds.

“Why don't you?” Jack asks. He has no idea what a werecat is, but if it's a part of this circus, he knows it has to be wonderful.

“Don't really need one.” Ali says. “Only do a few performances a night, and all we need are our little performers and props. If you don't have a tent, you perform anywhere you can.”

“Part of the ambience.” Max says. “So you can see some things without having to pick a tent.”

“That's gotta be a relief for the indecisive people.” Jack says, smiling when Max and Ali laugh. “It's ridiculously hard to choose a tent when there's so many.”

“Very true.” Ali says. They've made it to the bonfire courtyard. It's incredibly packed, and Jack is still surprised nobody's giving them a second glance, just assuming they're three more patrons in the crowd.

“I got the munchies.” Max says.

“You always do.” Ali rolls her eyes again. “Wanna grab some snacks?”

“You bet.” Max says.

Ali smacks him upside the head.

“I meant Jack.” she says. “Shall we go grab some snacks, Jack.”

“Okay.” Jack says. Ali and Max get along better than he and Jane ever have, assuming it's because they're closer to the same age. Then he wonders if they're twins, they definitely look alike enough, but he doesn't want to be rude and outright ask them.

“Have you tried the Elvis sliders?” Ali asks. “They're kind of new. What are they, Max?”

“A bite of miniature heaven?” Max says. “Who cares what they are? They're awesome.”

“I haven't, but they sound promising.” Jack says.

“They are.” Max says. “A miniature hamburger patty in between two donut holes, with cheese and bacon.”

“Whoa.” Jack says.

“Precisely.” Max says. “We should grab some hot chocolate and chocolate bugs.”

“I've already got chocolate bugs.” Jack says, pulling out his bag from earlier. “Bought them when I first got here.”

“Now that's what I call planning ahead. Good on you, Jack.” Max says. “Looks like you were right about him, Ali.”

Jack looks at Ali, confused, but Ali just smiles.

“So me and Jack will get the hot chocolate, while you go get the Elvis sliders?” She asks, and Max nods.

“Meet you at the bonfire?” he asks. Ali nods, and Max gives them a mock salute and disappears into the crowd.

Jack and Ali continue to walk around the courtyard. After a few moments of silence, Jack works for the courage to ask something, something he's not sure he'll be able to ask if Max were here.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jack asks.

“Anything.” Ali says. There's a small line for drinks, but the vendor recognizes Ali, who holds up three fingers, and the vendor nods.

“When, uh...when the circus came here last time, and I, uh…” Jack tries to find the words, annoyed how hard the words in his head are to say.

“What about it?” Ali asks.

“How did you know my name?” Jack asks. “And how did you know where to find me?”

“Hmmm…” Ali says, like the answer is harder than the question. “That's a tough one to explain.” She begins. “I can see things before they actually happen. I knew you were coming, not long before you actually did. I don't always see details, but when I saw you in a vision, I knew your name, like knowing my own.”

They get to the front of the line, and the vendor already has three cups of hot chocolate waiting for them, with extra mini marshmallows. Ali hands one to Jack and takes the other two in her own hands, and Jack notices the vendor wave them off without paying for the drinks. He assumes as performers free drinks are just one benefit.

“So you see everything?” Jack asks. He's not sure Ali's answer is what he was expecting, if anything at all.

Ali shakes her head.

“Not everything. Sometimes it's just words and pictures, like a book, except the book's old and has several pages missing. Make sense?”

“Not really.” Jack responds.

Ali laughs. “I know it's weird.” She says.

“No it isn't.” Jack says. Ali looks at him, skeptical at his response. “Well, I admit it is weird. But just weird as in odd, not bad.”

“Thanks for saying that, Jack.” Ali says. They walk around the courtyard, walking back towards the bonfire. Max is waiting for them, holding a paper bag and watching the fire.

“What kept you?” Max asks.

“Long line.” Ali says, handing him a cup of hot chocolate. “You didn't?”

“Nope. Guess people don't realize how amazing these are yet.” Max says, shaking the bag. “We ready?”

“I'd say so.” Ali says.

“Where to?” Jack asks.

Max and Ali share a glance before Ali answers.

“Rounds.” She says. “Circling around the circus. Watching... watching over things. Don't you wanna come with?”

“Absolutely.” Jack says, glad he's not being excluded.

They walk in loops, sipping their drinks and munching on chocolate bugs and Elvis sliders, which definitely live up to Max’s promise. Max and Ali tell him stories about life inside the circus, pointing out tents as they pass, and Jack answers their questions about the town he lives in, surprised they're so interested in what he thinks are just unimportant things. They talk like they've been friends for years, and and at the same time, like new friends with new stories.

If Max and Ali are watching over anything beyond their drinks and him, Jack can't see it.

“What’s the Observatory?” he asks, seeing a sign he's never seen before, as they throw away their empty cups and bags.

“Wanna see the stars, Ali?” Max asks his sister. Ali hesitates before nodding. “Ali reads the constellations.” he explains to Jack. “Best place to see the future.”

“Not so easy lately.” Ali says quietly. “But we can go. It only open when the skies are clear, so who knows if we'll get another chance.”

They head inside, behind a line that goes up a winding stairway around the perimeter, separated from the inside by a heavy curtain. The walls are covered in star charts, individual and groups of constellations.

“It's like how the fortune-teller reads her cards with the pictures, isn't it?” Jack asks, still trying to figure out the idea of seeing the future.

“Kind of, but still different.” Ali says. “I can't read cards to save my life, but Max is an expert.”

“It just like telling stories.” Max shrugs. “The cards you pick are like the beginning middle and end of a story. They all tie together. But it's also like a Choose Your Own Adventure story, in that everything can change based off decisions you make. Whereas Ali sees the future that can't be changed.”

“But it's not crystal clear.” Ali explains. “There's no explanations for what I see, and half the time none of it makes sense until it's already happened. Or it's too late.”

“It never hurts to have a disclaimer, Al.” Max says, patting her shoulder in comfort. “It doesn't have to be anything but a ride.”

Once they're at the top, they reach a platform, where it's completely dark except for a circus worker in a white suit guiding patrons inside. He smiles at Max and Ali, and gives Jack a curious look as he guides them in the dark to something like Jack's seen in Disneyland's Tower of Terror.

They got on a padded bench with a back and sides, the door clicking shut on one side as Ali sits in the middle between Jack and Max. It moves forward slowly, and Jack can't see anything ahead.

There's no top on this tent, Jack discovers. A part of it is open, showing the night sky.

It's completely different from the typical watching the stars on a picnic, something Jack's done many times before. There's no trees blocking the view, and the way the buggy sways almost makes him feel like there's no gravity.

It's also dead silent. As the buggy moves in what feels like a circle, Jack can only hear soft creaking and Ali's heavy breathing next to him. It's like the whole circus has disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness.

He looks at Ali, who's looking at him instead of the sky. She smiles, then turns her gaze back to the sky.

Jack wonders if he should ask her if she sees anything in the constellations.

“You don't have to do anything you don't want to.” Max says, answering the question in Jack's head.

Ali makes a face at him but looks up to the stars. Jack studies her carefully. She looks like she's translating a foreign language, squinting slightly.

But very suddenly, she stops, putting her hands over her eyes. Max puts a hand on her shoulder.

“You okay?” Jack asks.

Ali sucks in a breath before nodding, not moving her hands from her eyes.

“I'm okay.” she says, voice muffled. “It was really...light. So bright it was almost blinding. Hurt my eyes.”

She finally removes her hands from her face, shaking her head; whatever just happened, she's clearly moved past it.

Whatever's left of their ride, none of them look up at the stars.

“I'm sorry.” Jack says quietly as they walk out towards the exit.

“Not your fault.” Ali says. “I should've known what would happen, that's all that happens when I try, none of it make any sense and makes my eyes hurt like hell. Maybe I should just stop for the time being.”

“You need to take a complete 180.” Max says as they return to the pathway. “Heaven?”

Ali nods, much more relaxed now.

“There's an attraction called Heaven?” Jack asks.

“You haven't checked out the best tents yet, have you?” Max says, shaking his head. “You are most definitely coming back, there's no way we can squeeze them all in in one night. Maybe that's where Ali's headache came from, us dragging you through every tent you should've gone to already.”

“Max sees the past.” Ali says abruptly. “That's why he's such a good storyteller.”

“The past is set in stone.” Max says. “All I do is read it.”

“In the constellations?” Jack asks.

“No.” Max says. “On the circus goers. It hangs off you like a bad smell. Some know how to let it go, but it still lingers, whatever it is that led you to here. I...I shouldn't say read, but what Ali does isn't exactly reading either.”

“Can you see my past hanging off of me?” Jack asks.

“I could if I wanted to.” Max says. “But I make it a point not to unless I see something that's unavoidable. Want me to try?”

Jack nods. “Go for it.”

Max gives him a hard stare for a moment, just before Jack can start to feel uncomfortable under the stare.

“A tree.” Max says. “There's a tree that you feel more comfortable in than your own house, but not as much as the circus feels.” Max gestures to their surroundings. "Feeling like a freak even among people your own age. Nuts. And your sister sounds like a barrel of laughs.” he adds dryly.

“Sounds pretty accurate.” Jack admits with a laugh.

“What's the nuts?” Ali asks.

“My family owns a nut farm.” Jack explains.

“Oh, wow, really?” Ali says. Never in his life has Jack considered the miles of bushes of nut plants as amazing as Ali seems to be by them.

Despite his limitations, Jack is still amazed he's never seen this tent before. It's tall, taller than the acrobat tent, and stands more like a building. He stops to read the sign.

_Heaven_

_A Look at What's to Come_

_A Walk Through the Greatest Hits_

_There Are No Bad Memories_

_There Are Only Good Memories_

_Go Through Any Door You Wish_

_Leave When You're Through_

_Have No Fear of Disturbing the Dearly Departed_

 

Inside is the absolute last thing Jack expected to see. Instead of doors or rooms, there's a playground with a sandbox. In the sandbox, there's an etching in the sand, and it takes a moment for Jack to place where he's seen it before: on the clock's face.

Jack looks around, but this playground is the only thing to be seen in the tent. He follows Max and Ali to the sandbox, and once they're all standing in it, they wait. At first, nothing happens, but then, they're enveloped in a white smoke, so bright for a moment Jack can't see anything. When the smoke finally clears, the playground has completely disappeared, and they're now in what appears to be a building with endless hallways.

Before they start moving, Jack asks, “Why is it called Heaven?”

“You'll see.” Max says.

Jack starts walking down the hallway and goes through one on a whim, leaving Max and Ali behind. In it, instead of a room, he's in someone's garden in the afternoon, with a man flying a kite. Jack tries to call out, but apparently the man can't hear him, or perhaps can't even see him.

Jack understands this to mean he's just an observer. It's nice, in a way, but he decides to check someone else's heaven.

This one is completely different. Instead of a garden in the afternoon, it's a field at night. There's a car parked nearby, and the more Jack watches, two boys come outside the car. One is holding a box of fireworks, the other a lighter. Within moments, the fireworks are lit, and the show is spectacular.

Jack can hear one of the boys squealing, as well as grabbing the other boy in a hug. However, it's cut short when they realize some of the field has caught on fire, so they run back to the car and hightail it out of there.

Jack can't help but feel touched at seeing the memory, but when nothing else happens, he decides to try and find Max and Ali.

Now he can see why it's called Heaven. He's not sure what he expected with a name like that, but it definitely wasn't this. He's just gotten a front row seat to the best memories of those who'd passed on. It's as endless as one would expect Heaven to be, if not more.

As Jack leaves the room, he spots Max and Ali just exiting another room.

“See ya.” Max says, running off to a room in the distance and going in alone.

“Max always tries to go for the room at what he thinks is the very end.” Ali says. “He knows where all the hallways are to more heavens.”

Jack and Ali decide to take it a bit slower, choosing another heaven at random. This one is in someone's living room, piled high with books on the floor, a glass of what looks like whiskey on open space, somewhere a radio plays a Kenny Rogers song.

Jack can't tell what any of the books contain, or who's heaven it could be, but he's relieved to see Ali more relieved than she was in the observatory as she laughs, leading him through the stacks.

“How are we supposed to get out of here?” Jack finally asks, not sure if they ever will.

“Well, back the way you came is a start.” Ali says. She pulls him over to where Jack can now see is a man in a baseball cap reading a book in a recliner.

This heaven is much more humble than Jack would've expected for a man like this, even though he's sure his own heaven probably wouldn't be what people would expect either.

“It's okay.” Ali says. “We can go.”

She leads him out of this man's heaven and back to the entrance.

“This could never really happen.” Jack says, peeking in another door.

“Never say never.” Ali responds. She smiles at him and leads him towards roughly where they were standing upon entering. She goes first and is enveloped in the white smoke again, before she vanishes.

Jack only hesitates for a moment before following her, taking care to stand in the same spot.

When the smoke returns, Jack's no longer nervous, and before he knows it, he's back in the playground's sandbox.

When Jack steps out of the sandbox, Max and Ali are both waiting outside the tent’s entrance, Ali fidgeting with her legs.

“We should start to retrace our steps.” Max says, looking at the clock on his phone. “We have to get our performers ready for their next show and it's almost midnight.”

“Already?” Jack asks. “I didn't know that, I should've been home a while ago.”

“Can we at least walk you to the gates, Jack, please?” Ali asks. “There's something I want to give you.”

They walk back together along the pathways, making their way across the courtyard to the gates. Ali takes Jack's hand to pull him back through the tunnel, leading him through the dark pathway with ease. The field isn't as crowded as it was a few hours ago, though a few patrons come and go.

“Wait right here.” Ali says. “I'll be right back.” She runs towards the ticket booth while Jack turns his focus to the clock as it gets closer to 12. Within what feels like seconds, Ali's back, holding a silver card in her hand.

“Oh, that's brilliant, Al.” Max says upon seeing it. Jack looks at both of their expressions, confused. It looks like just another ticket. Ali hands it to him.

“It's special.” She explains. “Only super important people get these, so you don't have to pay admission every time you come. Just show it at the booth and they'll let you right in.

Jack stares at it, open-mouthed.

_This card entitles the beholder to unlimited admission_

is printed on one side in black ink, and on the other, it shows,

_Le Cirque de la Chasse_

and in smaller letters underneath it:

_Gabriel Novak, Proprietor_

Jack is awestruck, still staring at the silver card.

“I knew you'd love it.” Ali says, smiling, not fazed by his lack of his response. “That is, if you plan on coming back while we're still here.”

“It's perfect.” Jack says. “Thank you so much.”

“Guess we'll see you soon, then.” Max says, offering his hand.

“Absolutely.” Jack answers as he shakes it. “I know I'll be coming back tomorrow night.”

“That would be awesome.” Ali says. As Jack lets go of Jack's hand, she leans forward to give him a small peck on the cheek, and Jack feels his face get warm. “Enjoy the rest of your night.” she adds as she pulls away.

“Uh, you too.” Jack says. “G'night.” He waves goodbye before they slip back through the curtain, and once he can no longer see them, he turns to walk back home.

It feels like a whole lifetime ago he made his way to the circus, despite it only being a few hours ago. But more than that, it feels like the Jack that went in is completely different from the one that left, now the proud owner of the silver ticket in his pocket. He wonders which Jack is real, because he knows for a fact the side of him that spent so many hours in his tree by himself is a far cry from the side that was given special admission for a one-of-a-kind circus, who made friends with amazing people without doing anything different.

By the time he makes it back home, he's sure the Jack he knows himself to be now is closer to the Jack that's been dying to come out, unlike the Jack from the day before. He's not sure what any of that really means, but he's pretty sure it doesn't matter as much.

He dreams of walking close to a cliff, with a dog at his side, and for once, it doesn't seem out of the ordinary at all.


	41. Little Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh, Sam?” Dean calls, going after Sam as Sam's walking down the stairs.  
> “Yeah?” Sam replies, turning around as he gets to the bottom.  
> “I uh...was wondering if you wanted to go get that drink we never got in Florida.” Dean says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay. But this was a very long and tedious chapter, one that I just managed to finish. Hope you enjoy it.

_Springfield, Ohio, August 2013_

The Dessert Dinner just isn't the same tonight, despite the turnout. The circus is getting ready for a tour all around the northern states, having recently left the South, so there's a buttload of performers in attendance, including Castiel, who's visiting from Michigan.

Sam Campbell spends most of the dinner talking to Anna, who's sitting on his right, draped in Royal blue silk.

The suit Sam's wearing is technically an Anna Milton original, though it was deemed not suitable for his performances, with his addition of an animated full moon rising and setting, with a wolf throwing its head back to howl, proving to be too distracting.

But Sam was incredibly proud of both Anna's work and his animation, he couldn't bear to part with it, so he chose to keep it for normal wear.

“Somebody's definitely got their eyes on you, Sam,” Anna notes, gesturing with her champagne glass towards the door, where Dean's standing to the side, hands clasped behind his back.

“Probably admiring our collective handiwork,” Sam says without looking.

“Nah. It's not the suit. It's the guy IN the suit.”

Sam laughs, but he knows Anna's right; he's felt Dean's eyes boring holes into the back of his head all night, to the point where it's next to impossible to ignore.

Dean's attention wavers only once, when Gabriel knocks over one of his heavy wine glasses that almost hits a candelabra, spilling all over the silk tablecloth.

But before Dean can do anything, Sam immediately jumps up from across the table, bringing the glass upright without laying a hand on it, a detail only Gabriel can see from his seat. When Sam withdraws his hand, the glass still has his wine in it, not a stain on the tablecloth.

“Clumsy me.” Gabriel mumbles, looking at Sam suspiciously before turning to continue his talk with Castiel.

“You could've been an incredible ballet dancer.” Anna notes to Sam. “You've got some fancy footwork.”

“That's not the only place I can get fancy.” Sam says, and Castiel nearly spills his own drink while Anna laughs her head off.

For the rest of the meal, Sam watches Gabriel from the corner of her eye. Mostly, he talks about a renovation for his house with Castiel, repeating himself a few times despite Castiel pretending to not notice. Gabriel doesn't touch his drink again, and it's still full to the brim when the table’s cleared for the next course.

After dinner, Sam's the last to leave. As he leaves, he misplaces his jacket and won't let anyone wait while he looks for it, bidding them goodnight.

It proves to be extremely tedious, attempting to locate a jacket in the crazy place that is Gabriel's house. He retraces his steps through the both the library and the dining room, but still no jacket.

Eventually, Sam gives it up and goes back to the foyer, where Dean's by the door with his jacket hanging over his arm.

“Looking for this, Sam?” he asks.

He moves to hand it to Sam, but the jacket disintegrates to ash, falling on the ground.

When he looks back at Sam, Sam's wearing the jacket once again, already buttoned and the full moon and wolf animation continuing like it never stopped.

“Thank you very much.” Sam says. “Gnight.” He walks right past him and goes straight out the door before he can get a word in.

“Uh, Sam?” Dean calls, going after Sam as Sam's walking down the stairs.

“Yeah?” Sam replies, turning around as he gets to the bottom.

“I uh...was wondering if you wanted to go get that drink we never got in Florida.” Dean says. He maintains eye contact while Sam considers.

The gaze is so intense, it's even stronger than when Dean was only looking at the back of Sam's neck, and while Sam can feel the convincing of it, a technique Samuel always favored, Sam can tell he's also being serious, almost begging.

Both of those, as well as his own curiosity, is why Sam chooses to nod in agreement.

Dean smiles and turns away, walking back inside, leaving the door open.

After a moment, Sam follows. The door closes and loves behind him.

Inside, the dining room has been cleared, but the candles are still lit.

There's two glasses of wine on the table.

“Where's Gabriel?” Sam asks, picking up one of the glasses and walking to the other side of the table where Dean's standing.

“Fifth floor.” Dean says, taking the other glass. “He had the rooms that used to be living quarters for his servants completely renovated so he could have a better view. He won't be coming back down until morning. Everyone else is gone for the night, so the place is ours.”

“Do you always invite people over after the dinner guests leave?” Sam asks.

“Not once.”

Sam watches Dean as he slowly sips his wine. Something about Dean bothers him, but he can't for the life of him figure out what.

“Is it true Gabriel wanted all the fire white to fit the color scheme?” Sam finally asks.

“Yep, he sure did.” Dean says. “Told me to hire someone who could make it happen. But I said I wanted to do it myself.” He traces a finger down one of the candles and the flame changes colors from silver to white. He pulls his hand back, and the flame returns to normal.

“What do you think it is?” Dean asks.

Sam doesn't need clarification to know what Dean's asking.

“Manipulation. When I was younger, I thought it was magic. It took me years to break out of that habit, though my grandfather didn't really like it much. He'd call it smoke and mirrors, or pulling the wool over people's eyes when he was in a bitter mood.”

“Smoke and mirrors?” Dean repeats. “I seriously never thought of it like that before.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Sam says. “That's exactly what it is. You use a much more advanced version of smoke and mirrors. And you're ridiculously good at it. You have so many people who would take a bullet for you, even though you'd never let them. Pamela. Gabriel. You can't tell me there aren't more.”

“How'd you know about Pamela?” Dean asks.

“It's a huge company, but they all talk amongst each other.” Sam says. “Seems to me she has a one-track-mind for someone none of us has really met. I noticed right off she's had a particular interest in me, so much so, I stopped to wonder if she was my opponent. Then, after you showed up in Florida, Pamela was waiting on someone, and it wasn't hard to put the two together. But I'm pretty sure nobody else knows. But the Banes twins believe she's in love with this idea of someone she's built up in her head, instead of the actual person.”

“The Banes twins sound very smart.” Dean says. “If I'm really just smoke and mirrors, I don't always mean to be. It helped me get the job with Gabriel. After all, I only had one reference on my resume and no experience. Though it looks like you're smarter than that.”

Sam sets his glass down, still unable to make up his mind about Dean. The light from the candles enhances his face, so Sam looks away before replying, turning his attention to the fireplace.

“My grandfather did something pretty close to that.” he says. “That odd charisma. I spent my earliest years watching everyone eat up every word he said. They didn't even question it, just followed along blindly. Until he finally retired, and had me take his place. When I could really understand what was going on, I swore to myself I'd never sink to that level to dupe someone. It'll take a lot more than any smile you could give me to win me over.”

But when he looks over at Dean, the smile is gone.

“I'm sorry you had to go through something like that.” Dean says.

“Those years are behind me now.” Sam says, surprised by Dean's genuine apology. “But thanks anyway.”

“Do you remember your mom at all?” Dean asks.

“Not really. I was six months old when she died. I think I remember fire. Or something really bright and hot. Mostly I can only remember my grandfather's looks of resentment during those early years.”

“I only have my dad.” Dean says. “I actually don't remember my mom much either. It was mostly my dad for years after we lost her, before he decided I had to stop helping with the family business to focus on the game. I read a lot of books, still traveled in the early years and practiced. All of this was done to prep me for the game. I still do most of that, along with accounting, bookkeeping, and anything else Gabriel asks, for what feels like my whole life.”

“Why didn't you just make something up? I wouldn't know either way.” Sam inquires.

“I dunno. I guess cause it feels nice to be upfront with someone instead of making it up.” Dean says. “Besides, you'd know if I was lying, wouldn't you? I'd hope you'd extend me the same courtesy.”

Sam thinks on it for a moment, before nodding.

“You remind me of my grandfather.” He says.

“How?” Dean asks.

“The way you hold your self, so confidently. I tried to be, but I never really could match my grandfather when I tried. I'm better with manipulating things I can actually touch. You don't have to do that, just so you know.” he adds, once he realizes what's off about Dean's face.

“Do what?” Dean asks.

“Change your face like that. It looks great, but I can tell it's not real. Probably a bit exhausting to always have to keep it on.”

Dean frowns, but then slowly, his face starts changing. The beard retracts and eventually disappears. His chiseled face goes soft, giving away his actual age. His murky eyes change to a candy apple green.

The face he'd been wearing was handsome, but it was obvious. Like Dean knew he could use his looks to his advantage, something Sam saw right through straight away.

There was something else at work as well, something that had to be the work of the illusion, some feeling like Dean wasn't entirely there.

But now, with the illusion gone, the man in front of Sam is completely different from the one he's known as Gabriel's assistant, like he's just seeing Dean for the first time. Sam feels like he's closer to Dean now, though Dean hasn't moved any closer, and he's still very handsome.

The intensity of Dean’s stare only gets more intense with his eyes now present; now that Sam's really looking at him, he can see deeper, now that he's not distracted by the fake color.

Sam can feel a blush creeping up his neck and, but he manages to control it so it's not obvious in the dim candlelight.

But then, Sam thinks he realizes why Sam sees something familiar.

“You've looked like this before.” he says, now perfectly recalling where he's seen it. “At my audition. And maybe one of my shows?”

“You make it a habit of remembering the people in your audience?” Dean asks.

“Not all of them.” Sam says. “Just the ones that look at me like you do.”

“Which would be…?”

“Like you're not sure if you want to run screaming in the opposite direction, or grab me and never let go.”

“I can assure you, I do not want to run screaming in the opposite direction.”

They just stare at each other for a moment as that sinks in.

“Looks like a lot of work for just a few minor details.” Sam says.

“Eh, it's got its perks.”

“You look way better without it.” Sam says. Dean looks surprised at that, so Sam adds, “I said I'd be up front with you, didn't I?”

“You're making me blush, Mr. Campbell.” Dean says. “How many times have you been here?”

“Over a dozen.” Sam says.

“And you've never had a tour?”

“Gabriel never gave me one.”

“He doesn't believe in them. He'd rather let the place keep its mysteries. If nobody goes exploring, it keeps up the illusion that the place is neverending. To think it used to be two buildings before it was revamped.”

“Wow. I definitely didn't know that.” Sam says.

“Two townhouses, complete mirror images of the other. He bought them and has them converted into one, with all the little tweaks. Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be able to give you the full tour, but I definitely can squeeze in some rooms you'd probably never guess are here, it you're up for it.”

“I am.” Sam says, setting his wine glass down on the table next to Dean’s. “Do you make it a habit of giving off-limits tours of your employer’s house?”

“Only once, and it probably won't surprise you to know Castiel wouldn't take no for an answer.”

 

They exit the dining room, walking under the shadow of a realistic looking palm tree statue in the hall, going into the library and stopping at the stained glass window.

“Here's the game room. Or the man cave, if you prefer.” Dean says, pushing the window to reveal a hidden doorway.

“Now that's classy.”

The place looks more like it's all set up for show than actual use. Dartboards that look like they've never been used, a pool table that smells brand new.

There's an interesting lineup of weapons on one wall, arranged in no particular order, with names underneath.

The First Blade.

The Colt.

The Equalizer.

An archangel blade.

An anti-vampire device.

Artemis’ Bow and Arrows.

Enochian brass knuckles.

Mjölnir.

The Lance of Michael.

The Spear of Destiny.

Excalibur.

A Hand of God.

Four rings arranged like a key, proclaiming they belong to the Four Horsemen.

And perhaps the most impressive, Death’s scythe.

“Gabriel's always had a thing for supernatural weapons.” Dean explains as Sam checks them all out. “There's tons more, but these are still pretty impressive. I'd kill to have a collection like this.”

Dean studies Sam carefully as Sam walks around the room. He looks like he's struggling to hold back a smile as he studies all the weapons.

“You look like you're hiding something.” Dean says.

“I'm hiding a lot of things.” Sam says, turning his head to look over his shoulder at Dean before turning back to the wall of weapons. “How long have you known I was your opponent?”

“Only since your audition.” Dean lies. “I was completely clueless before that. You can't tell me you didn't notice how off-guard you caught me.” Dean pauses before he adds, “Although it's not the advantage you're thinking it might be. What about you?”

“I knew in the boiling heat that night in Florida, and you know as well as me that was when.” Sam says. “You could've let me leave with those night vision glasses so I could try and puzzle them out, but instead you chased me down. What for?”

“I wanted my glasses back.” Dean says. “I'm actually very attached to my belongings, especially ones I've altered. And besides, I didn't want to keep up the act anymore.”

“You know, it used to be nobody wasn't a suspect.” Sam says. “Though I was sure it was someone that was a part of the actual circus. But I should've known it was you all along.”

“What make you say that?” Dean asks.

“Because you do your best to downplay your true strength.” Sam says. “That's as obvious as night and day. But I'll admit right now, I never considered charming my night vision glasses.”

“I've lived a lot of my life in Ohio.” Dean says. “Soon as I could charm things, that was the first thing I did.”

Dean removes his jacket and tosses it on top of a chair. Then, he takes a deck of simple playing cards off of a nearby shelf, not sure Sam will be willing to go with it, but too intrigued to back down.

“Up for a card game?” San asks.

“...Not in the way you're thinking.” Dean answers as he starts shuffling. When he's ready, he sets the deck down on the pool table.

He flips one card over face up. The ace of spades. He swipes his hand over it, and immediately, it becomes the ace of hearts. He pulls his hand back, uncurling his fingers so Sam can have a turn.

Sam smiles, and pulls off his own jacket as well, tossing his on top of Dean's. Then, turning back to the table, he keeps both hands firmly behind his back.

The ace of hearts stands upright, one blow and it would topple over. It stays like that for a moment before it pulls itself apart and rips in half. The two pieces stay where the whole card stood for several seconds before falling face down.

Copying Dean, Sam swipes his hand over the torn card and it's immediately repaired. When Sam slips it back to face up, the card has changed to the jack of diamonds.

Then the whole deck floats in midair for a moment or two, before the cards collapse and spill all over the table.

“You have an impressive knack for physical manipulation.” Dean has to admit.

“I have sort of an unfair advantage.” Sam says. “My grandfather says it's a natural talent. I find myself going crazy if I'm not manipulating the things around me. I was such a klutz growing up.”

“What about living beings?” Dean asks.

“Depends on the being.” Sam says. “Inanimate objects are easy. I spent years learning how to manipulate living things. But the birds I work with are way easier than just any bird.”

“What about me?”

“Eye color, maybe your voice.” Sam says. “That's all I could do without your consent, but even so, it's harder to do than you'd expect. I couldn't heal your injuries. Very rarely do I have any lasting impact. But if I know the person well, it helps a lot, even if it's still very difficult.”

“What about you?”

Instead of answering, Sam goes to the wall and grabs the one titled the Demon killing knife, part of the inspiration for one of the circus clock’s hands, and carries it back to the table.

While holding it in his right hand, he sets his left hand on the table, and without flinching, stabs himself right through the back of his hand, through the card underneath his hand, into the pool table itself.

Dean can't help but flinch, but he doesn't say anything.

Sam pulls the knife up slightly, his hand and the four of clubs still impaled, blood dripping. He holds out his hand for Dean to see, to prove that there's no trickery at work here.

With the still intact hand, he pulls the knife out, the card falling onto the table. Then the dripping blood recedes, returning to the gash in his hand, which, once all the blood has returned, the gash itself starts to knit itself together, then becomes a scar, then that too fades away, until there's no evidence Sam had ever stabbed himself.

Sam swipes his hand one more time, and the card is clean, no puncture wound or blood to be seen. The card has been changed to the four of spades.

Dean picks the card up, tracing his fingers over the surface. Then, with a sleight of hand that would make any street magician green with envy, the card disappears. He decides to leave it in his pocket for the time being.

“Thank God the challenge wasn't a fist fight.” He says. “I'd be no match for you.”

“I was forced to let my grandfather cut my fingers open repeatedly until I could heal them without hesitating.” Sam says, returning the knife back to its display. “A lot of it is both seeing where everything is supposed to be, and then feeling around for yourself. I couldn't do what I just did with anyone else even if I wanted to.”

“Sounds to me like you had the better learning style.”

“Hell no. I would've preferred reading.”

“I think it's interesting how we were taught in two completely different ways to compete in the same game.” Dean says. He looks at Sam's hand again, but there's no need; it's as pale as when they first entered the room, no indication he'd stabbed himself whatsoever.

“Isn't that kind of the point?” Sam says. “Two different learning styles competing against each other, on neutral ground?"

“I admit it.” Dean says, hating how he has to partially lie here, “I don't really know what the point to all of this is, after all these years.”

“Me neither.” Sam admits. “I'd go as far as to say even calling it a game or challenge isn't even the right word. It's more like a museum. What's the next stop on the forbidden tour?”

“Wanna see a work in progress?” Dean asks. Knowing Sam doesn't consider the circus antagonistic is a surprise, but a good one. He'd stopped doing the same years ago.

“Absolutely.” Sam says. “Especially if it's the project Castiel wouldn't shut up about during dinner.”

“It is.”

Dean escorts Sam out of the room through a different door, walking through the hall quickly and into a huge ballroom towards the back, where the moonlight can come in through the glass doors.

 

Outside, signs of the unfinished project is everywhere. The ground has been dug up so it's about a foot deeper. Mostly, it's just a bunch of soil and stacked stones.

Sam walks down the steps very carefully, Dean following him. Once they're at the bottom, the stacked stones become a type of maze, where you can barely see anything through the gaps.

“Thought it would be a good idea for Gabriel to have a pet project to work on.” Dean explains. “He barely leaves the house nowadays, so I thought why not the garden? Wanna see the design?”

“Yes, I would.” Sam says. “You have the plans?”

But instead, Dean makes one big sweeping motion, and gestures to their surroundings.

What had been just dug up ground and rocks immediately turns into a stone pathway, complete with an archway at the entrance.

There's some ivy on the stones, but once Sam walks through it, he gasps upon seeing four different styles of gardens.

The first one is clearly Japanese inspired, with a small koi pond and small Japanese house figurines, and one of the largest cherry blossom trees Sam's ever seen, along with a zen garden, freshly raked.

The second one is Italian inspired, with hedges trimmed into odd shapes and flowers decorating the insides, with a fountain holding a statue of a famous Italian singer.

The third one looks like a miniature rainforest, with all the vegetation overlapping each other, but it's when Sam takes a closer look that he realizes they're all Hawaiian plants, even a pineapple plant with a small pineapple bud in it.

But it's the last one that takes the cake. It's not the plants or the decorations that does this. All the plants are ones you could find almost anywhere. No, what stands out the most is how Sam knows immediately where the inspiration for this design came from, even if he'd never been, as he doesn't count his visit in the Immersive Reality tent: the Cleveland Botanical Gardens. Tulips adorn one small section, a tall and imposing gazebo in a corner, and the sound of running water can be heard. Naturally, it all takes Sam's breath away.

Sam walks over to the koi pond, and sticks two fingers in, letting the cold water chill his hands.

“This is all in my head isn't it?” Sam asks when he hears Dean behind him.

“You're not objecting.” Dean says.

“I could make it stop, you know.” Sam says, turning to face Dean, who leans against the archway, watching Sam.

“I know you could. If you were actually putting up a fight, you wouldn't be able to see all this, in fact, you probably wouldn't see anything. Of course, the fact that we're close together doesn't hurt.”

“There's no way this will work in the circus.” Sam says.

Dean shrugs.

“Distance is a big issue.” Dean says. “It's one of my big tricks, and yet I hardly ever get to actually do it. I can show this to one person fairly well, but more than one, and the whole thing falls apart.”

“It's incredible.” Sam says, watching the koi swimming underneath him. “I could never come up with something like this, and I'M supposed to be the illusionist. You'd put me to shame.”

“What, is ‘The Cute Guy that Can Bend the World to His Puppy Dog Eyes’ too big of a mouthful for you?”

“You couldn't fit all that on my tent’s sign.”

Dean's laugh is a warm one, and Sam has to turn away to hide his smile, keeping his attention on the koi pond.

“There's one of my tricks that goes largely unused too.” Sam says. “I'm actually pretty handy with manipulating fabric, but aside from the animation, there's mostly no need for me to do it when we have Anna.” Sam turns completely around, the silver moon catching the light so it glows with the lamp posts.

“I think she's a fallen angel.” Dean says. “And believe me, that's a good thing coming from me.”

“I think she'd be flattered to hear that from you.” Sam says. “Can you see this the same way I am?”

“More or less.” Dean says. “If I move closer, the colors and details are more vibrant.”

Sam moves to the opposite side of the koi pond, closer to Dean. Sam studies the symbols carved on the archway, the vines choking it, but he keeps looking back at Dean. However subtle he was trying to be, he fails completely when Dean catches Sam's eye with his own. Each time, Sam finds it harder to look away.

“Nice idea with the bonfire as your connection.” Sam says, trying to focus on one of the lamp posts.

“It doesn't surprise me you caught on.” Dean says. “I had to think of something since I can't travel with the circus like everyone else. The lighting ceremony was practically the perfect idea thrown in my lap. Couldn't just let you run the whole thing, could I?”

“It wasn't without consequences.” Sam says.

“Like what?”

“Put it this way: the Banes twins have more going for them than their shiny black hair.”

“... you're not gonna elaborate, are you?” Dean asks.

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Sam says. He pulls a cherry blossom from a low hanging branch, closing his eyes as he smells it, the petals soft like an angel’s wing. The details hitting all the senses are so mesmerizing, it almost makes him faint. “Who's idea was it to make the garden lower than the actual pavement?”

“Gabriel. Supposedly there's a room inside just like it. I can show you if you want.”

Sam nods, and they backtrack through the garden. Sam stays close to Dean as they walk, close enough to be touching, though Dean keeps his hands respectfully away. When they reach the door, Sam looks back at the garden, where the illusion is now gone, and all that's left is the dirt and stones.

 

Inside, Dean leads Sam across the ballroom again. He stops on the far side and slides a panel open to reveal a hidden staircase, going down.

“What, is it a torture chamber?” Sam asks as they make their way down.

“Not exactly.” Dean says. When they reach the door at the bottom, he opens it wide enough for Sam to walk through. “Watch your step.”

It's a small room, but it has a ridiculously high ceiling, a white gold chandelier draped with tear shaped diamonds in the center. The walls and ceiling are painted in dark colors and decorated with the cosmos.

There's a path that leads around the room into an upper area, though most of the floor is lowered and furnished with cushions covered in the finest silk.

“Gabriel swears there's no other room in the world like this, but I'd swear it's just a hodgepodge of several different rooms.” Dean says. “I find it the best place for when I want some peace and quiet.”

Sam laughs, and a strand of his hair falls out of place.

Dean cautiously reaches out a hand to brush it out of the way, but before he can, Sam's already jumped off the ledge, his jacket flapping as he falls into the pile of cushions.

Dean watches Sam for a moment before following suit, sinking beneath the cushions beside Sam.

They just lie there, looking at the chandelier, the light reflecting off the diamonds turning it into its own galaxy without any assistance from either of them.

“How often do you visit the circus?” Sam asks.

“Not that often, unfortunately. Whenever it's near Ohio, obviously. I try to be there in other parts of America if I can get time off from Gabriel for enough time. It kind of feels like I have one foot on opposite sides of a state line. So much of it comes from me, but still so much doesn't.”

“What's your favorite?”

“No joke? Yours.”

“Why?” Sam asks, looking at Dean.

“I find it very tasteful. I've done so much behind closed doors, and there you are, doing them for the whole world to see. Maybe it's different for me because I understand it better. Pan's Labyrinth is lots of fun too. I didn't know if you'd want to collaborate on it.”

“You wouldn't believe what a hard time my grandfather gave me for it.” Sam says. “He thought it was bullshit. Kinda sad how that's the worst insult he could've come up with. He considers combining skills on the borderline of kitschy. I don't really understand why, either. I love Pan's Labyrinth, adding rooms was some of the most fun I've had with the circus. I really loved the one with that giant dinosaur footprint, so you can see how many people stood inside it or walked around it.”

“Well. I've never thought about it with that much detail before.” Dean says. “I'm definitely going to go through it with that in mind. But wait a minute. I thought you said your grandfather died years ago.”

“He did.” Sam says, looking back at the ceiling. “Not sure how to explain.”

“What about you? Which tent’s your favorite?” Dean asks.

“Immersive Reality.” Sam answers immediately.

“What makes you say that?” Dean asks.

“Because of how much I've been able to _feel_ while in it.” Sam says. “It's like a waking dream. It makes you completely forget it's not real, that it's just a tent in the circus. Or maybe I just like the idea of traveling. How did you come up with something like that?”

Dean thinks back on the process, as he can't tell Sam the full truth, not yet.

“I thought it would be interesting to show people all the things I've seen, but of course people would want to see more than just roadside attractions.” Dean says. “I did extensive research before managing to combine a person's desires with what actually exists. I'm glad you consider it a waking dream. That's kind of what I was going for.” This much Dean can admit, even if Sam never knows it was made specifically for him.

“That's why I made the Chinese Wishing trees.” Sam says. “I thought trees that are believed to grant wishes were a good mirror image of ones you'd see in your head.”

Dean recalls his first visit to the Chinese Wishing trees. He was simultaneously annoyed, astounded, and hit with a sentimentality that was completely different. He didn't even know if his own wish would stay on the branch, wondering if the rules would even allow it.

“Do the wishes even come true?” Dean asks.

“I couldn't tell you.” Sam says. “Not like I'm in a position to track down every person who made a wish. Why, did you?”

“Maybe.”

“Was your wish granted?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“Tell me once you know.” Sam says. “I hope it comes true. I guess it's fair to say I made the Chinese Wishing trees for you.”

“You didn't even know it was me.” Dean says, turning to look at Sam. Sam's focus stays on the chandelier, but that small secret smile is back.

“Maybe not, but your Immersive Reality tent gave me a good impression of you, along with all the other tents you made. Thought you'd like it.”

“I do.” Dean says.

They fall into a comfortable silence after that. Dean longs to reach over and touch Sam, but he holds back, worrying about upsetting the balance they've managed to forge. He settles for stealing looks at Sam, watching how the light falls on Sam's pale skin. Many times, he manages to catch Sam doing the same thing, and the moments where they're looking in each other's eyes are otherworldly.

“So, uh, what's with the de aging?” Sam finally asks.

“That's a delicate process.” Dean answers. “And they actually are aging, it's just slower. How do you move the circus?”

“Train.”

“A train?” Dean asks, unable to believe it. “You move the entire circus on one train?”

“It's really big.” Sam says. “And it's magic. If Hogwarts can move an entire school's worth of students, why can't I move just one circus’ worth of performers?” Sam adds, making Dean laugh.

“Mr. Campbell, you are nothing like I expected at all.”

“Ditto.”

Dean stands up, going back to the ledge.

Sam reaches out a hand for support, and Dean takes it to pull him. It's the first time either of them have touched.

The energy in the air is electric. It's like the room is completely charged with energy. The chandelier starts swaying.

The feeling on Dean's skin is incredible, starting where their palms are touching and spreading all the way deep down inside him.

Once Sam's standing upright, Sam pulls away and steps back against a wall. The second Sam lets go, the feeling subsides.

“S-sorry.” Sam says quietly, trying to catch his breath. “That...was unexpected.”

“No, I'm sorry.” Dean says, his heartbeat pounding like a hammer against cloth. “But I'm not too sure what just happened.”

“I'm sensitive to energy.” Sam says. “People like us have distinct types of energy, and...I guess yours was more overwhelming than I thought.”

“I hope that was as good for you as for me.”

Sam doesn't respond, and to keep himself from reaching for Sam's hand again, Dean opens the door, leading him back up the stairs.

 

They walk through the ballroom, stepping in sync.

“How's Gabriel?” Sam asks, try to find anything to fill the awkward silence, anything to make his hands stop shaking, and remembering the incident at dinner.

“He's wavering.” Dean tells him, sighing. “Since the circus first opened, he's lost focus. I...try to help him stay grounded, though I worry what that's doing to his memory. That wasn't my plan, but I thought it was for the best after what happened with Ellen Harvelle.”

“Both her and her daughter were and are involved in everything, but not the actual circus.” Sam says. “Not the easiest place to be in. You can at least keep an eye on Gabriel.”

“Right.” Dean says. “Just wish I could've protected those like her the same way the bonfire protects all the performers.”

“Really? The bonfire?” Sam asks.

“It's not just my connection to the circus. It serves as a protection of some kind. That it's only for inside the circus is my own fault.”

“Hey, if you messed up, so did I. I didn't even consider protection.” Sam says. “I didn't realize so many people would be wrapped up in this game.” Sam stops suddenly, standing in the middle of the ballroom.

Dean also stops, but doesn't speak, just waits on Sam.

“It wasn't your fault.” Sam says. “Ellen's death. If it was destined to happen, nothing either one of us could've done would've changed anything. Free will is unchangeable. That's something I had to learn right off the bat.”

Dean nods, then takes a closer step towards Sam. He reaches out to take Sam's hand again, slowly tracing his hand over Sam's.

The feeling's just as strong as before, if not more so, but there's something different this time. There's a change in the air again, but the chandeliers don't sway this time.

“What's going on?” Sam asks.

“You mentioned energy before.” Dean says. “I'm focusing on ours together, so the chandeliers don't break.”

“Even if they did, I could fix them.” Sam says, but doesn't move his hand.

Without the worry of breaking something, Sam's able to let the feeling relax him instead of scare him. It's unlike anything he's ever felt before. He's felt this same feeling in a huge number of his tents, the excitement of being enrobed in something so wonderfully made, but in this case, focused on him. Their skin touching sends an electric shock throughout his nervous system, though their fingers stay clenched together. Sam looks up at Dean, again caught up in the brilliant green of his eyes, not turning away this time.

They just stand there staring at each other for what feels like hours, thought it's only a few minutes.

The clock starts to chime somewhere, making Sam jump, clearly startled. The second Sam lets go, he wants to grab Dean's hand again, but this has all been too much already.

“You have amazing self-control.” Sam says. “The energy is all over your tents, but face-to-face, it's way more toned down.”

“Always been one for misdirection.” Dean says.

“Won't be for long, now that you've got me looking your way.”

“I like you looking my way.” Dean says. “Thanks for this. For not leaving.”

“And I forgive you for stealing my jacket.”

Sam smiles as Dean laughs.

Then in a blink, Sam's gone. A simple misdirection of Sam's own that worked long enough for Sam to slip away, despite all of him telling him to stay.

 

Dean finds Sam's jacket in the game room, still on top of his own jacket.


	42. The Damned Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3: Intersections
> 
> I would love nothing more than to hear people's reactions, the things they see upon walking through the gates of Le Cirque de la Chasse, to know how it hits them in all five senses. To know how their experiences parallel with mine, and how different it is. I've been graced with such letters, to have Männer aus Briefen share their thoughts with me, be it something personal from their in journals, or just a passing thought scribbled on a popcorn bag.  
> We all add our stories, every person, every time we pass through the gates, every night the circus is there. I pray there will never be a time where we run out of new things to discover, so the stories will never stop.
> 
> -Donatello Redfield, 2010

Standing on the platform in the middle of the crowd, high enough so that you can see from any angle, are two figures, still as statues.

The woman looks to be just any other person there, except for her costume. It's black, with a gold design all along the trim at the bottom. It depicts a little girl being pulled by strings, surrounded by the night sky.

Her companion is dressed in a simple suit, except the jacket is covered in silver sequins.

They're so close they could almost touch, and yet they don't. On the floor two of the exact same symbol, which someone notes they've seen on the clock by the ticket booth.

You watch them for a while, and yet you'd swear they are in fact touching, if only you couldn't see the small space in between the symbols.

With a start, you realize they can't be touching because they're essentially trapped inside their own symbols. You think it's supposed to be a powerful statement of forbidden love, but then you realize there's more to come.

Behind the two performers, a young lady, who has to be several years younger than them, steps up, and raises her hands.

The two performers start to shake and scream, and the audience starts to panic. Someone tries to run up and stop it, but someone hiding in the shadows orders the person to not interfere, that they all know what they're doing.

And then, of all things you could've expected, you see two pillars of black smoke fly out of their mouths, rest onto the ground, and ultimately get swallowed up by the ground.

The performers don't pick up their pace, instead slowly move closer.

Now that the smoke is gone, you can see they now can move closer without being stopped. Many patrons start to move on, but now that you can see them interact, you can see the slightest of changes. A leg moving closer to a waist, a hand moving to the small of the other's back. Oh so slowly, they're moving ever closer to each other.

And yet, they still never touch.


	43. Rainbow Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anniversary for Le Cirque de la Chasse isn't ten years, as one would expect, instead it's 13, which would be the equivalent of how long the circus has been both open and traveling. Rumor has it's because the tenth came and went, and nobody thought to celebrate until after.

_Springfield Ohio, Monday, October 13, 2016_

The anniversary for Le Cirque de la Chasse isn't ten years, as one would expect, instead it's 13, which would be the equivalent of how long the circus has been both open and traveling. Rumor has it's because the tenth came and went, and nobody thought to celebrate until after.

The party is thrown at Gabriel Novak's town house on Monday, October 13, 2014. The guest list is limited to circus members and special guests. It's not announced to the public, naturally, and while some believe it's because it's circus related, nobody has come forward to confirm. And even if it wasn't, nobody would believe such a colorful event like this one would come from the circus of black white and silver.

It's like a rainbow, both the house and guests covered in them. The lights have a theme in each room, with greens and blues in one, reds and oranges in the next. The tables are adorned with tablecloths that almost don't look real. The centerpieces have flowers in all means of colors. The members of the orchestra wear suits of tomato red. Even the glasses are hand blown and colored instead of clear.

The staff wear a deep green rather than black or white. Even Gabriel is wearing a fancy purple tuxedo that makes him look really sharp, and the entire evening, he chews on homemade candy bars that have purple food coloring in them to match.

A variety of lilies from the standard white to colors that could never be seen in nature are in each of the hands of the golden statue of Kali in the foyer, petals falling off whenever someone passes by it.

The cocktails poured stick to the theme as well, served in weirdly shaped and colored glasses.

The liquids themselves impressive colors as well. There's green wine and ruby red absinthe. Unique tapestries are draped over anything that will hold still long enough. Candles are glowing everywhere, the flickering flames casting over the party and guests.

Ali and Max are the youngest ones there, having nearly the same birthday as the circus. Their shiny black hair is in full effect, and they wear complimenting outfits of a black constellation dress and a rainbow sequined tuxedo.

As a birthday gift, Gabriel gives them two fluffy black kittens with green eyes and ribbons around their necks. Ali and Max are in love with them, as these are the only ones they now have that aren't skinwalkers, and quickly name them Orion and Auriga, though much later, they can't remember who is who, so they call them by their names together whenever possible.

The original proprietors are in attendance, except of course for the late Ellen Harvelle. Jo Harvelle comes dressed in a red gown, accompanied by Castiel, in a navy blue suit that's as colorful as his wardrobe will allow, though his tie is a few shades lighter, and has a dark red rose pinned to his lapel.

John Winchester arrives in his customary brown.

Anna Milton attends, after some persuasion by Gabriel, wearing a kimono style dress, with dark pink underneath and the outside covered in dark green and covered in flowers.

She spends most of the night sitting in a chair by the fire, watching everything happen around her instead of being a participant.

Donatello Redfield is there strictly by invitation only, the only condition being he couldn't write anything about it or tell anyone. He accepts this condition gladly, wearing silver with a touch of navy blue, a complete reversal of what he usually wears.

He spends his night in Sam Campbell's company, who's tuxedo changes color to complement whoever he's closest to.

Other than the band, there's no other performers, as the company is difficult to impress, what with them all well acquainted with the circus. Thus, the evening is spent talking and mingling.

The dinner, which is served at midnight, which is decorated in black white or silver in the outside, but beautiful colors spill onto the plate when broken open, the flavors one on top of the other. A few dishes even are served on mirrors instead of plates.

Ali and Max slip small tastes of safe foods to the black kittens at their feet, whole listening carefully to Anna's stories about the ballet. Tasha Banes quips how such stories probably aren't appropriate for barely turned thirteen year olds, but Anna keeps going anyway, omitting anything that might be inappropriate that Max can see in her eyes, even if she doesn't say them.

Dessert is a ginormous cake carved to look like the circus, frosted with black white and silver stripes, the filling a shock of lemon cream. There's miniature chocolate werewolves, and strawberries coated in patterns of dark and pink chocolate.

After dessert is finished, Gabriel makes a grand speech thanking the guests for the past amazing thirteen years, for the astonishment of the circus that was only an idea thirteen years ago. It goes on for a while about love and family and finding the diamonds in the rough. Some of it is transcendental, while other parts are just babbling, but it's still considered sweet by nearly everyone there. After Gabriel is through, many come forward to thank him profusely, for both the party and the circus. Several point out their favorite parts of his speech.

Besides, of course, the comment about how nobody seems to age besides the Banes twins, which led to an awkward silence broken by Castiel coughing loudly. Nobody cares to try and bring it up again, and many are relieved when Gabriel himself doesn't seem to remember most of what he said an hour later.

There's dancing in the ballroom after dinner, where drapes of silver are all over the walls and windows, shimmering in the candlelight.

John moves along everyone's line of sight, going largely unnoticed and speaking with only a few people, including Castiel, who introduces him to Donatello. The three of them have an interesting conversation about time and clocks before John politely excuses himself and fades away once more.

He doesn't even bother with the ballroom, other than a small waltz when he's dragged into it by Lisa Braeden. She wears a dress that looks like it's made from shimmery seaweed.

Their dancing is definitely one to give a second look at.

Pamela, clad in a blue fishnet dress with a white dress with flowers underneath, tries desperately to catch Dean's attention.

He avoids her at every attempt, and is hard to spot in the large crowd, since he's dressed very similar to the staff. Eventually, with the help several champagne glasses, Lisa persuades her to give it up, drawing her out to the garden as a distraction.

Dean's attention, when he's not obeying Gabriel's orders or hovering over Anna, who swats him away when he keeps asking her if she needs anything, is solely focused on Sam.

“I can't stand not being able to ask for a dance.” Dean whispers as he passes by Sam in the ballroom, the green of his suit bleeding over into Sam’s suit.

“Then taking you down will be a piece of cake.” Sam whispers softly, winking at Dean as Gabriel passes by, offering Sam his arm. The spreading green clashes with a vibrant purple as he leads Sam away.

Gabriel introduces Sam to John, not sure if they’ve met before. Sam says, no, though he does in fact remember the man who offers his hand, as he only looks slightly different when he was six.

Several people bother Sam for a performance. While at first he tries to politely decline, later in the evening he gives in, pulling a confused Lisa into the middle of the ballroom floor and making her disappear in a snap despite the crowd. One moment there's a man and woman in shimmery seaweed green, and the next Sam is by himself.

A few moments later, there's a bunch of shrieks from the library as Lisa reappears inside a sarcophagus propped up in the corner. Lisa takes a champagne glass from a still in shock waiter, giving him a beautiful smile before returning to the ballroom.

She passes by Ali and Max, where Ali is teaching the black kittens to climb on her shoulders, and Max is pulling every book he can get his hands on from the library's bookshelves. Eventually, Ali chooses to drag Max out of the room to stop him from spending the whole party reading.

Guests move in a flurry of color through the halls and library from the ballroom, an ever changing rainbow highlighted by chit chat and laughter. The mood doesn't change, staying this light and happy well into the early hours.

As Sam walks through the front hall, Dean grabs his arm, pulling Sam into a shadowed alcove behind the Kali statue. The lily flowers flutter madly with the sudden change in the air.

“I'm still not used to that, just so you know.” Sam says. He removes his arm from Dean's grip, but doesn't move away, though there's plenty of room between the wall and the statue. His suit settles into a brilliant bottle green.

“You still look like the first time I saw you.” Dean says.

“Oh, is that why you're wearing that color?” Sam asks.

“Nah, just a coincidence. Gabriel was adamant on the staff wearing green. I had no idea your outfit would work out so well.”

Sam shrugs, “Couldn't decide what I should wear.”

“You're amazing.” Dean says.

“Um...thanks?” Sam says, not meeting Dean's eyes. “Your face is too handsome. I like your real one.”

Dean's face starts to change, back to the one Sam remembers down to the last freckles l from that one night they spent in those rooms three years ago under way more intimate circumstances. Since then, there hasn't really been an opportunity for anything besides small side glances.

“Don't you think that's a bit risky? Especially here?” Sam asks.

“It's only for you.” Dean says. “Everyone else just sees the same face as always.”

They just stand watching each other in silence as a group of people laughing moves past them on the other side of the statue. The laughter echoes through the space, though the group is far enough away to where Sam and Dean aren't seen, and Sam's suit stays its bottle green.

Dean lifts a hand to move a stray hair away from Sam's face, moving it behind his ear and stroking his face. Sam's eyes flutter shut and the lily petals around his feet start to move.

“I've been missing you.” Dean whispers softly.

The air between them is electric as he begins to lean in, putting his lips gently on Sam's neck.

In the other room, the guests start complaining about the sudden heat. Fans are pulled from purses and handbags, fluttering like wings.

In the shadow of the Kali statue, Sam suddenly pulls away. There's no immediate reason why until swirls of brown swirl into the green of his suit.

“Hello, John.” He says, nodding towards the man who showed up without a noise, not even disturbing the flowers.

The man in the brown jacket greets Sam with a polite nod. “Mr. Campbell, I'd like to talk to your acquaintance alone for a moment, if that's alright with you.”

“Sure.” Sam says. He leaves without another look at Dean, his suit shifting from caramel candy apple to sparkly rainbow black as he walks towards the Banes twins, who are teasing their black cats with small silver spoons.

“You should know better than this, Dean.” John says to Dean.

“You knew this would happen.” Dean says quietly, his eyes still on Sam as he stops at the ballroom's doorway, where his suit is dripping with silver as Donatello offers him a glass of wine.

“I knew _something_ would happen. I couldn't say exactly what I expected was going to happen.”

“You knew exactly what would happen between us before any of this started and you didn't think that was something I should be warned about?”

“I didn't think it was needed.”

Another cluster of guests wanders into the hall front he dining room, disturbing the lily petals again. Dean escorts the older Winchester through the library, sliding the stained glass window door open to access the empty game room and continue their talk.

“I barely hear you after 13 years, and now you wanna talk?”

“I actually didn't have anything to talk about. I just wanted to interrupt your little... rendezvous with Sam.”

“He knows your real name.”

“His memory's sharp. What is it you're wanting to talk about?”

“I want to know how well I'm doing.* Dean says, voice low and hard.

“You've been making excellent progress.” His father says. “You've got a steady job here, your position is suitable for your actual job.”

“And yet I'm not really being me. You had me learn all these tricks and then I suddenly had to come here pretending to be someone I know I'm not, while Sam's out in the open, doing what he's doing.”

“But nobody in there believes it. They think he's playing tricks on them. They don't see him for what he is any more than they see you for what you are, he's just more obvious about it. It's not about the audience. That's my whole point. You're capable of doing everything Sam's doing without passing it off as manipulation and smoke and mirrors. You can stay hidden and match his creations. I suggest you keep your distance from him so you can focus on saving him.”

“I'm in love with him.”

In all this time, never had anything Dean had said or done had gotten a rise out of John, not even once he accidentally set some important documents on fire, but the expression he wears now is is one of pain and regret.

“I'm sorry to hear that.” John says. “You're going to need to use that to make the challenge work in our favor.”

“We've been doing this for thirteen years now. Why not just end it?”

“It doesn't work that way. The rules are that the game doesn't end until there's a clear winner.”

“And how long until then?” Dean asks.

“Depends on the players would be my guess. I believe the last one was 20 years.”

“There’s no way we can keep this circus going for 20 years.”

“Then you'd better buckle down on finding a way for both of you to win. You're an amazing magician, with a strong heart.”

“What would you know about it?” Dean demands. “You haven't even given me so much as a phone call in years. I haven't done one thing for you. Everything I've done, every slight alteration I've made to the circus, every impossible trick and amazing attraction, has all been for Sam.”

“Your goal’s still the same.”

“I'm not doing this anymore.” Dean says. “I'm out.”

“You can't.” John replies. “You're bound to it. To Sam. The challenge will keep going. Until one of you loses, or you find a way both of you can win. There's no choice in it at all.”

Dean picks up a ball from the pool table and throws it at John, who moves out of the way easily and instead the ball hits a stained glass window.

Without a word, Dean turns his back on his father. He walks back out the door in the back, not paying attention to Pamela when he walks past her in the hall, where she'd been close enough to hear everything.

He walks straight to the ballroom, making his way to the center of the floor. He takes Sam's arm, spinning him away from Donatello.

Dean pulls Sam to him in an emerald embrace, so close there's no clear distinction between where Dean's suit ends and Sam's suit starts.

To Sam, it's like everyone else in the room disappears as Dean holds him close.

But before Sam can voice his shock, Dean's lips close over his, and he's lost in both the kiss and Dean's amazing green eyes.

Dean kisses him like they're the only two in the entire universe.

The air around them moves around the room, forcing the glass doors open with a gust of the curtains.

Nobody can take their eyes off of them.

And then Dean releases Sam and walks away.

By the time Dean's left the room, almost immediately, the whole thing is forgotten. It's all replaced by confusion blamed on the heat or one too many glasses of champagne.

Donatello doesn't understand why Sam is suddenly standing still, or when Sam's suit changed to green.

“Something the matter?” He asks, when he realizes Sam is shaking.

 

John Winchester storms through the front hall, somehow managing to avoid tripping over Ali and Max, who are laying on their stomachs trying to teach Orion and Auriga tricks.

Max hands Orion (or Auriga) to Ali and follows the man in the brown jacket. He watches as the man crosses into the foyer and leaves by the front door. After he's gone, Max looks through the nearest window, watching the man as he passes underneath the streetlights before disappearing altogether.

Ali finally catches up with him then, both kittens on her shoulders and purring away. Gabriel follows close behind, making his way through the hall.

“What's going on?” Ali asks. “What's wrong?” Max turns away from the window.

“That man moves like a predator.” He says, as Gabriel leans over the both of them to look out the window at the empty street.

“What was that?” Gabriel asks, but Ali and Max and the black kittens are already down the hall, lost in the rainbow crowd.


	44. Reminessences

_Concord Massachusetts, October 2019_

Jack spends the early hours of his next night at the circus with Ali and Max exploring Pan's Labyrinth. It's a nearly headache-inducing number of rooms, connected to different themed hallways with doors that clash horribly. One hallway appears to be completely made of paper, with old Renaissance drawings on the walls. In another it's raining.

“Is this real?” Jack asks, raindrops dripping down his coat.

In response, Ali kicks water from a puddle at him, and Max just laughs.

While they navigate Pan's Labyrinth, Max tells them a story about the story of Perseus in such complete detail that Jack's surprised when they don't bump into the man himself at any moment.

They reach a room guarded by two giant things, which Ali explains are called Gog and Magog.

The door behind them is the only way out, as the one behind the three of them seems to have vanished.

Max stops his story to investigate the room for a means of fighting the giants, not finding any weapons or anything even remotely pointy. Ali starts to get very upset.

After a very long time spent trapped with the giants, Jack finally finds some swords hidden in a hollow tree trunk. After handing two of them to the twins, they fight them off together, the giants turning into rock and sand. That done, the door stands unguarded, allowing them to walk through, escaping into what's clearly a witch's basement, where a witch is putting something together in a bowl.

That's reason enough for them to leave the room pronto. There's numerous doors in this room, and yet Ali still finds the one that leads them back out to the circus.

She still seems agitated, but before Jack can ask what's wrong, Max checks the time only to discover they're late for their performance. They all agree to meet up again later, and the twins disappear.

Jack's already seen the kittens perform so many times already these past few nights, he practically knows what trick they're going to do next before they do, so he decides to explore more of the circus by himself while he waits for them to be available.

The path he chooses this time doesn't have any doors, just a path in between two tents, silver stripes lit up by the light of the lamp posts.

But then, he notices a small flaw in the usually flawless stripes.

Jack looks, and finds a small gap in one tent. It's just a small split, but its edges are lined with silver, and there's a ribbon hanging over his head, like it was supposed to be tied together to keep it shut. Briefly, he wonders if it's just a small mistake, and someone forgot to tie it.

Then he sees the tag. It looks like something straight out of Alice in Wonderland, attached to the end of the ribbon and hanging a few feet above the ground. Jack flips it over, and finds a drawing of a black and white sketch of a perfume bottle being sprayed, and instead of a puff of the scent, a spritz of stars comes out. On the opposite side, is black with writing in silver calligraphy that reads:

 

_Reminessences_

_The Perfume of Memories_

_Anthologies of What's Come to Pass_

 

_Enter carefully_

_and feel free to share what is given_

 

Jack can't tell what that last line is supposed to mean, or if this is actually supposed to be for another tent. Most of the tents have small chalkboards for signs, as well as the title written in chalk, with the entrances clearly marked. But this one looks as if it's not supposed to be here. Others pass by him without notice, too busy in their own lives to notice him looking at a tag hanging from a tent.

Cautiously, Jack pulls apart the flaps, just enough to take a peek inside to see if it actually is a tent and not the back of a bigger one. All he can see is a bunch of twinkling lights and odd shapes that he can't make out. Still not convinced, he pulls apart the flaps wider so he can enter, with the caution advised on the tag, which proves to be extremely helpful as he bumps straight into a table covered in perfume bottles. He stops abruptly, hoping he doesn't knock any bottles over.

It's a small room, about the same size as a powder room, or maybe that's because of the armoire the bottles are resting on, which is very small and intimate, though upon closer inspection it's actually bigger than expected. All the perfume bottles are different. Some are the modern style jars that look like they should be holding anti aging cream instead of perfume. Others look like fancy bottles complete with a squeezing handle at the end. Still others look like bottles that hold bath salts. There doesn't appear to be any particular order to them, they were just put there and left there. There's other bottles as well, be it on the ground or on top of boxes or bookshelves.

The only thing that really fits the tag's name is the ceiling. It's silver and covered in a mist. Jack sniffs it, and it almost makes him feel nostalgic, though he can't place what the scent is. The effect is almost like watching one's mother in the kitchen, baking something delicious.

Jack's not sure how it all might relate to perfume, or their scents, as he walks around the armoire.

He recalls what the tag said about sharing things, wondering what could be inside them that could be worth sharing. Most of them look like they're just filled with water. As he reaches the other side of the armoire, he grabs one at random, a small round bottle, a black onyx one with silver stripes. He spritzes some on his arm, and sniffs. He smells the smoke of a sizzling bacon, a hint of a hamburger and french fries. Curious, he spritzes some more and takes a deeper sniff. There's the smell of a freshly churned milkshake and whipped cream, ketchup and smoke from a grill. The distinct smell of salt on the fries. The grease of the bacon. He can almost feel the cold glass of the milkshake, and the anticipation, the big meaty taste that first bite of the burger. It's intoxicating and wonderful and just slightly unnerving. After a few moments, he puts the lid back on the bottle and sets it carefully back on the armoire.

He looks around at the various bottles, still curious but not sure he wants to smell another. He picks up a blue one with swirls etched in the glass. He sprays, and upon sniffing it, he's immediately hit with the scent of chlorine, the undeniable smell of a swimming pool. He can't hear anything above him, and it's clear he's alone, with the pool lights on. There's something so freeing about it, so naturally good about flowing so freely through the water. Both the smell and the feeling are amazing, with the refreshing feel of bursting through the surface.

Jack sets the bottle back down, and both the scent and feeling fade, back inside the perfume bottle.

Next he goes for one on the shelves, wondering if the bottles they're in have any particular meaning, or if they actually are in a particular order.

This one actually isn't a bath salt bottle or a perfume one, instead it's a flask with a Celtic design on it, and the top is unscrewed with little difficulty.

He thinks there might be something in the bottle, but he can't be sure. The smell he's hit with is metallic and dirty. Rows of cars full of missing parts, the smell of afternoon. He feels like he's walked among the cars so many times. There's the barking of a dog and the melody of a handmade wind chime. He inhales deeper, and there are other vehicles besides cars: trucks and vans alike. The dirt on the ground is constantly kicked up, and the sound of someone working on one of the cars is behind him.

The sensation of the dog suddenly sounding like it's now next to him is so real, he almost expects it to be there in the tent with him, but it's just him and the bottles. Jack puts the flask back on the shelf, then goes for another one.

Curiously, there's one tucked in the way back, and this one isn't a perfume bottle either, instead it's a baby bottle. It feels heavier than one would expect. Removing the nipple, and for a moment, Jack's confused, because the scent doesn't change at first. Then comes the aroma of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, wafting in the kitchen of a late afternoon. The scent of leather and baby powder makes him feel like he's holding a baby, with the baby hugging him back. There's the impression of kissing the baby on the forehead. The smell of something burning. Then there's a sudden shift, a movement in front of him. Something dark. The baby being thrown into his arms. An order to take the baby and run. The sensation of running out of the house, away from the burning heat. A sound like someone possibly screaming.

Jack puts the nipple back on the bottle, disturbed. Not wanting that to be the last impression, be puts the baby bottle back where he found it, and decides to go for one more before leaving the tent to find Ali and Max again.

He goes for the only box on the table, a worn down wooden box. The inside is just as worn as the outside. But he notices that this box has other things besides the scent in it. There a couple of photos, one of two boys together, one of which Jack swears he's seen before, and another with the boys and their mom. A prop horned necklace. A green plastic army man. A miniature compass. A silver lighter.

Then the scent hits him, and he immediately forgets about the box's contents. The scent is comfortable, like he could last forever in this scent. Playing with a green army man and cramming it in a car's ashtray. Playing with Legos and getting them stuck in the vents. Carving initials into the car door.

 

Music being played, but no matter how many times it's played, it's still just as comfortable.

Waking up with a plastic spoon in his mouth. Being woken up by the sudden loud blast of the car stereo.

So many long days and nights traveling from place to place, but it's all worth it, having the only partner he could ever want. Singing along to a classic song. So many memories pass through his mind, all of them with the same two people.

All of it ending with a spine crushing hug that makes him ache at the feel of it. 

He feels hands wrapped around him, hands on his back, and he jumps startled, closing the box a little roughly.

The sensation ends almost immediately. Jack is still alone in the tent, underneath the comforting mist.

He's done for now, he decides. He goes back the way he came, careful not to disturb any bottles.

He stops to adjust the tag so people are more likely to see it, though he can't explain why. The illustration of the perfume spraying stars faces outward, but he can't tell if the smell is supposed to be comforting or a warning.

He walks back to Ali and Max, wondering if they'd want to join him in the courtyard for snacks.

The smell of the Elvis sliders wafts into his nose, and Jack decides he's not hungry at all.

He wanders down the winding pathways, mind preoccupied with perfume bottles full of strange memories.

As he turns, he finds another raised platform with another living statue, but it's different from the snow queen he saw before.

This man is Asian, his short black hair combed and slicked. His suit is gray, covered in what looks to Jack like some elaborate cursive, but when he gets closer, he sees that the cursive is actually some foreign language written all across the suit. When he tries to read it, he realizes they're words that were once inscribed on a tablet, as shown by the one at his feet. Words that are hidden to Jack wrapping around the man's suit.

The statue himself is immobile, but his hands are held out, and only then does Jack notice the dark clouds above his head, and Jack sees someone in a blue blazer press a button, and simulated lightning flashes above the statues head.

The movement is so slight, it almost goes unnoticed, but very slowly, the statue curls his fingers as if to grasp the lightning, then oh so slowly collapses, his eyes glowing briefly.

And then the person that pressed the button bows his what in respect, and disappears into the crowd.

The statue gets back up slowly, continuing to hold his hands out. The words on his suit now seem to be glowing against the charcoal grey of his suit, like his eyes were just a moment ago.

Jack's still watching the statue when Ali taps him on the shoulder.

“He's my favorite.” Ali says, watching the statue with him.

“Who is he?” Jack asks.

“He has many names.” Ali says. “But mostly he's called the Prophet. I'm glad someone hit the button tonight. I do it myself, now and again, if someone hasn't already. I don't think he looks complete without it.”

The statue is opening his eyes wide, slowly, to take in the light. Then his eyes slowly close again.

“So what were you up to?” Ali asks as they walk away from the Prophet towards the courtyard.

“Found a tent full of perfume bottles and other stuff that I'm not sure I was supposed to see.” Jack says. “It was...weird.”

To his surprise, Ali laughs.

“That's Max's tent.” She explains. “Sam made it for him, so he'd have somewhere to practice getting his stories out. Max said he wanted to practice reading people, just so you know, so we won't see him till later. He does that now and then, for ideas for more stories. I'd say he's either in Bloody Mary’s Mirrors, or the Room of Runes.”

“What's the Room of Runes?” Jack asks, more curious about a tent he hasn't seen before than he is about wondering who Sam is, since he doesn't remember Ali mentioning him before.

“It's a tent made up of all kinds of different walls, so you can draw whatever runes you want. If they're real, something will happen inside the tent. Max has made stories come to life with some of the runes he's drawn.”

As they walk around the courtyard, Ali insists he try a matcha ice cream that's both delicious and disgusting. But his appetite seems to have returned, so they share a bowl of miniature pie tarts and cream cheese crab puffs.

They walk through a tent filled with more mist, this time concealing creatures made of origami, the likes of which Jack has never seem. Life size people with blue swirling tattoos, a phoenix with flames on its wings.

The dark shadow of a creature neither of them can see runs past Ali's feet and disappears.

She claims there's something called a “hellhound” somewhere in the tent, and though Jack wouldn't doubt it, he has difficulty trying to picture what one would look like.

“It's late.” Ali says as they go from tent to tent. “Do you need to be heading home?”

“I can stay a little longer.” Jack says. In the past few days, he's become really good at sneaking out and back in without anyone knowing he'd been gone, so he's been coming and staying later and later.

There's not that many patrons walking through the circus around this time, and as they keep walking, Jack notices many of them are wearing blue blazers. Different styles, from the casual jacket to a full on tuxedo jacket but they're all shades of blue that looks even more rich among the black and white stripes, along with a curiously shaped star pinned to them.

He asks Ali about it, once enough shades of blue have walked by that he's sure it's not a coincidence, and remembering the man that had pushed the button was wearing a blazer.

“It's kind of a uniform.” She says. “They're _Männer aus Briefen_. Some of them follow the circus. They're always here later than everyone else. The blue and the pin is how they identify each other.”

Jack tries to keep asking questions about the _Männer aus Briefen_ and their blazers, but before he can get a word out, Ali drags him into another tent, and he's so startled by what he sees, he shuts up immediately.

The first thing he thinks of is how it reminds him of the electronics section in a superstore.

Every screen is lit up. Not limited to the black and white, there's no stripes of the tents to be seen anywhere. Such amazing, beautiful sights, the likes of which Jack knows can't exist in America.

“What is this?” Jack asks. He didn't see a sign, and the sight in front of them gives no hints.

“This is Immersive Reality.” Ali says, pulling him closer to the screens. The scene changes to a parade, filled with people in bird costumes and floats, confetti being thrown everywhere. Palm trees can be seen in the background, shaking in the breeze.

There's someone using it now, which explains why the screens were lit up, but they keep quiet, so as not to disturb the patron. Jack sniffs at the sight of wildflowers on the screen, surprised when there actually is the faintest scent of flowers, almost tropical.

“Hide and seek?” Ali suggests, and Jack agrees before she takes her jacket off and leaves it by the platform, her surprisingly colorful costume making her invisible as, with a gasp, she walks right into the screens and becomes one with the scenery.

“How did you…?” He asks as he looks where she entered. He follows her into the same spot, surprised when he at first feels the screen, then it gives, allowing him to become part of it as well. He weaves through the crowd and trees, looking for glimpses of her shiny black hair.


	45. Accounting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel wonders in his drunken haze if there's a chance Dean has circus papers in his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want it on the record that I really really did not like writing this chapter.
> 
> I only did so because 1. I just wanted to get it over with. And 2. I'm a bit jittery from the caffeine running through my system.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter anyway!

_Springfield Ohio, March 2017_

Gabriel Novak sits at his big desk in his study, a mostly empty bottle of scotch in front of him. At one point he'd had a glass, but he'd left it somewhere he can't remember hours ago. Wandering through all of his rooms has become a regular thing, born from an inability to sleep and just being flat out bored. He also misplaced his jacket, abandoned in one of the many rooms he's already walked through. In the morning, a maid will find it and return it to him.

In his study, between sips of his Scotch, he tries working, which turns out to be just a bunch of scribbles on scraps of paper. He hasn't really felt inspired to work in years. No ideas for new productions or anything. His previous cycle of concept, execution and moving onto the next thing has suddenly stopped, and he doesn't have a clue why.

It doesn't even make any sense to him, either. Not tonight or any previous one like it, regardless of how much Scotch he's drank. That's not how any of this works. He starts a project, he develops an idea and sends it out to the public, and more often than not it finds a way to keep going all on it's own. It's only then he can back away and let it do its thing. That thought isn't always nice to think about, but that's how it's supposed to work, and Gabriel's well versed in the process. You're proud, you get your souvenirs, and even if you're crying your eyes out, you force yourself to move on.

The circus abandoned him for new worlds, but he's still standing where it left the stratosphere. This should've been plenty time for him to mourn it and start over again, but he's come up with nothing. There's no new aspirations, nothing more grand or extravagant for what he realizes has been 14 years now.

He wonders if it's because he's done the unthinkable: created something so amazing, even he himself can't top it. But that thought leaves him feeling heartbroken, so he drowns it in more Scotch and attempts to make it go away.

The circus irritates him.

It's an irritating thought at times like this, in the bottom of the bottle and the silent night. It's not even that late, in circus time, it's still pretty early, but there's an uncomfortable silence.

And now, with the bottle empty and his pen out of ink, he just sits there, combing a hand through his hair, staring off into empty space. There's low flames in the fireplace, the bookshelves stuffed with relics casting small shadows.

Somehow, his wandering eye lands on the open door and stops at the door across the hall. It's the door to Dean's office, tucked in between two fake palm trees. It's only one of the many rooms that Dean's claimed as his, all the better to keep him available to Gabriel, though as of now he's gone out for the night.

Gabriel wonders in his drunken haze if there's a chance Dean has circus papers in his office. And what exactly could be in them. He's only ever seen any in passing, hasn't bothered to look at the fine print in years. But now he just has to.

Empty bottle in hand, he stands up and walks into the hall. He's sure it's going to be locked when he finally gets to the door, but when he tries to turns the doorknob, it moves without a problem, and the door opens.

Gabriel hesitates in the doorway. The office is completely dark except for the light coming in through the hall and through the window from the street lights.

For a second, Gabriel has second thoughts. If he'd saved any Scotch, he'd just close the door, walk away, and forget the whole thing. But there isn't any Scotch saved, and besides, it's his house, damn it. He fumbles for the light switch on the closest wall, and it immediately lights up the room.

There's way too much furniture for the tiny room. There's filing cabinets and duffle bags everywhere, boxes neatly stacked. The desk smack in the middle of the room is a more watered down version of the one in Gabriel's study, though the surface is covered in uncovered pens and a pile of notebooks, all in immaculate order and not lost in clutter.

Gabriel sets down the empty bottle on the desk and starts searching the filing cabinets, opening the drawers and searching through the papers with no clear idea what he thinks he's looking for. There doesn't appear to be a designated section for the circus; there's bits and pieces mixed in with receipts from the theaters and box office returns.

He's surprised to find there's no real order to it. There's no labels on anything. The whole place is in perfect order, but it doesn't actually look organized.

In one drawer, Gabriel finds blueprints and drawings. Many have Castiel's stamps of approval and initials, but there's others that are clearly written by a hand Gabriel doesn't know. In a few cases, they're written in languages Gabriel doesn't know, though they all have “Le Cirque de la Chasse” written on the edges.

Pulling them closer and spreading them out over what little floor he can use, he reads then carefully, page after page, letting them roll open and fall into small stacks as he moves on to new pieces.

Even the stuff that's clearly Castiel's handiwork have had someone write over them. Additions were made on top of them in someone else's handwriting, layer upon layer of the original drawings.

Leaving the papers where they are, Gabriel goes back to the desk, to look at the notebooks by his empty bottle. They look like bank statements, row after row of numbers and calculations with notes totals and dates. Gabriel moves these aside.

He now focuses on the desk itself. He starts pulling open the drawers. Most of them are still empty. One of them has a bunch of new notebooks and unused pens. Another has books full of dates, appointments written in Dean's unmistakable handwriting.

The last drawer he finds is locked.

Gabriel tries to turn to another drawer, but he can't stop thinking about that last one he found locked.

There's no key on the desk, and there's no locks on any of the other drawers. It looks out of place on a modern filing cabinet.

He doesn't remember if the lock was there when the desk was first put here years ago, when the office only had the desk and one filing cabinet, and the room looked ginormous.

After coming up empty a few minutes later, he gets frustrated and returns to his own study to retrieve an old lock picking set that sits on one of his shelves.

Lying down on the floor behind the desk, he nearly destroys the lock altogether trying to get the thing open, but his attempts are rewarded with the click of the lock giving way to the lock picking set.

Leaving the set on the floor, he pulls the drawer open and finds only one book.

It's large and leather bound. Gabriel takes it out of the drawer, startled by how heavy it is despite its size, and drops it with a loud thud on the desk.

It's an old journal. The leather is slightly cracked and the edges are well maintained, despite its age.

Hesitating for only a slight second, Gabriel undoes the band and opens the journal.

The ends are covered in a very well detailed drawing of a garden covered in symbols and markings. It's saturated in ink, barely any empty spaces. Gabriel can't make any sense of it at all, can't tell if the markings are actually words or just a string of nonsense. Now and then he sees something he recognizes. Some look like numbers. Some look like symbols on the clock in the circus. It also reminds him of the scars on the contortionist's body.

The pages are covered in descriptions of things he's never heard of, like Wendigo or Devil's trap.

It takes Gabriel a while before he notices they all have the same signature.

It's even longer before he realizes he knows the names written on them.

It's only when he finds a page with the matching handwriting with the Banes twins’ names that he's positive the journal has the names of every single person in the circus.

And it's when he looks even closer that he sees they have locks of hair next to them.

The later pages have the names of the original people, though one name isn't there, and one has been ripped out.

The last page has his own name, written in his own handwriting, a flourish of nearly illegible scrawl, clipped from a paper that probably was once on a letter. Underneath it is a lock of his hair taped onto the paper surrounded by more symbols. Gabriel's hand reaches up to touch the ends of his hair, touching his neck.

A shadow covers the desk and makes Gabriel jump back in shock. The journal is closed and bound once more.

“Gabe?”

Dean is in the open doorway, watching Gabriel with an intrigued look on his face.

“I...I thought you were out for the night.” Gabriel says. He looks down at the journal then back at Dean.

“I did, but I forgot something.” Dean's eyes look over to the papers and blueprints left on the floor. “What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Excuse me? I should be the one asking you that question.” Gabriel says. “What the hell is all this?”

He unbinds the elastic again and opens the journal, flipping through the pages carelessly.

“It's just records of the circus.” Dean says without looking at the journal.

“What records look like this?”

“It’s a system that works for me.” Dean says. “It's a shit ton of stuff to keep organized, as you can tell.”

“How long have you been doing this ?”

“Doing what?”

“Keeping up with this... whatever this stupid trash you call a system.” He keeps flipping through the pages, though he really doesn't want to touch the thing anymore.

“This 'trash’ as you put it, dates back all the way to the beginning of the circus, when it was just an idea.” Dean says.

“You're did something to it, didn't you, did something to all of it?”

“All I'm doing is my job.” Dean says. There's a serious warning in his tone now. “And, since we're on the subject, I really don't appreciate you going through my office with no regard to the well being to any of my stuff without at least giving me a heads up first."

Gabriel moves around the desk to face Dean, stepping over the blueprints and stumbling, though his voice is surprisingly steady.

“Last I checked, you work for me, so that entitles me to go through anything in my house whenever I damn well please, including projects I'm involved in. You're working with that man, aren't you? You've been hiding this from me all this time, you don't have any right to keep this all under my nose--.”

“Under your nose?” Dean interrupts, laughing at Gabriel's obliviousness. “You’ve barely scratched the surface of all the stuff that's been happening under your nose. The things that have always been going on under your nose before the circus was even an idea.”

“I never wanted any of this when I came up with the circus.” Gabriel says.

“There has never been a moment when what you wanted mattered.” Dean says. “This is all happening without you and always has. You never even gave any of it a second look! You just signed the papers without a thought as to what you were signing off on. It's just money, you said. You didn't care about the details, just said it was all up to me.”

The papers on the desk are disturbed slightly as Dean's voice gets louder and he stops, stepping away from the desk. The papers stop moving again, just haphazard piles once again.

“You've been fucking everything up.” Gabriel says, “You lying bastard. Keeping who knows what in these notebooks--.”

Dean interrupts again, crossing his arms with a smug smile on his face, asking, “I'm sorry, what books would you be talking about, Gabe?” Gabriel looks at the desk again. The papers are gone, no piles anywhere. There's a pen next to a lamp, a statue of Hermione from Harry Potter, of all things, a small clock, and the empty Scotch bottle. There's no trace of anything else on the desk's polished surface.

Gabriel starts to stumble again, eyes darting to the desk and Dean, focus wavering.

“You're not going to do this to me.” Gabriel says, grabbing the empty bottle from the desk and almost looks like he's about to throw it at Dean. “You're fired. Get the hell out of my house, and don't expect to use me as a reference, ever!”

The empty bottle disappears. Gabriel freezes, moving his hand frantically through where the bottle used to be.

“I'm not going anywhere.” Dean says, voice calm and calculated. Every word is spoken slowly, like he's talking to a complete idiot. “That's against the rules. I'm staying right where I am, and I'm actually going to continue with this trash. You're going straight back to getting smashed and your get-togethers, and you'll completely forget any of this even happened. Things are going to keep going as they always did, and that's final.”

Gabriel attempts to protest, but just closes his mouth in confusion. He looks at Dean, then back at the desk. He looks at his hand, clenching his hand in a fist to grab at something that isn't there, though he has no clue what it could've been.

“Sorry.” He says, turning to Dean. “I... can't remember what I was doing. What were we talking about?”

“Nothing important, Gabe.” Dean says. “Just small circus details.”

“Right, right.” Gabriel says. “Where is it now?”

“Australia.” Dean's voice shakes slightly, but he coughs to cover it up before turning again.

Gabriel just nods absently.

“Can I take that for you, Gabe?” Dean says, gesturing to the empty bottle that seems to have reappeared on the desk.

“Oh.” Gabriel says. “Yeah, yeah, fine.” He hands Dean the bottle without looking at either of them, not even thinking about what he's doing.

“Want me to grab you another one?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Gabriel says, wandering out of Dean's office and back into his own study. He settles into his chair and moves it to the window.

Back in his office, Dean gathers his scattered notebooks and papers with shaking hands. He just rolls up the blueprints and piles of papers and books.

He takes the lock picking set left on the floor and and returns it to the shelf in the study, slamming it down.

Then he empties all the drawers in his office, removing every single file and document. When everything is organized just like it's supposed to be, he finds a set of duffle bags in the rooms connecting to his office and fills them to full capacity, the journal somewhere in between the papers. He goes over his rooms with a fine toothed comb, removing every single trace of anything personal from them.

He turns off the light and lamp and locks the door behind him.

Before he takes off for the night, shoulders straining with duffle bags and blueprints, Dean sets down a full bottle of Scotch and a glass on a table next to Gabriel's chair. Gabriel doesn't even make any sign he knows Dean's there. He just keeps looking out the window in the dark and rain. He doesn't even hear the clock of a door closing as Dean leaves.

“He moves like a predator.” Gabriel says to himself before pouring a glass of Scotch.

 

Very late into the night, Gabriel has a very detailed conversation with the ghost of a man that calls himself Samuel Campbell. Thoughts that might've been lost in a booze induced haze in other circumstances stay right where they are in his head, confirmed and solidified by the ghost of a malicious hunter.


	46. Coffee and Pastries with Jo Harvelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know down to my soul that the world is changing, and I've yet to be given an explanation, nothing to give me closure, to grasp. We all feel the same way and we all deal with it in our own unique style. Castiel and Anna bury themselves in their work, to distract them. I didn't think much of it for years. I love my mom, always will, but I think we made a mistake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised even myself by writing another chapter. Enjoy!

_Springfield, New York City, and Detroit, 2017_

Anna Milton's studio is an impressive space situated near Calvary Cemetery, with large windows that stretch from floor to ceiling and provide an incredible view of Springfield, Ohio. Dresses display elaborate costumes in groups and pairs, almost like a small gathering with the guests missing their heads.

Jo Harvelle wanders through a small group of black and white costumes as she waits for Anna.

But then she stops to admire a particular one with an impressive Chinese dragon across the front, that Jo knows without a doubt Sam's animation skills will be put to good use.

“I can make that in princess pink if you're interested.” Anna says as she joins Jo.

“No way. I could never pull off a dragon like this.” Jo says.

“They’re a bit difficult to make it work without any color.” Anna says, turning the mannequin around and regarding the back with her trained eye. “Too much white and people assume it's for the prom. Too black and people think it's for a funeral. Probably needs some more work. I'd shorten the sleeves, but Sam won't have it.”

Anna shows Jo some of her newer pieces, including her sketches along the walls, before sitting down for coffee and pastries by a window.

“Your assistant changes every time I come here.” Jo notes, after the newest one brings a tray with their coffee and the warmest pastries and disappears.

“They get tired of waiting for me to toss them a bone, then decide to take their interests elsewhere, once they decide backing me into a corner and pushing me to saying yes to one date would be ill advised. I'm not as young as I once was, but I still have plenty of life ahead of me, plenty of dough, and nobody to lavish it on; they're parasites. This guy will be gone before the month is over, mark my words.”

“That's funny. I pictured you leaving it all to Gabriel.” Jo says.

“Gabriel doesn't need the money, and he could never run this place like I would. His eye for things like that comes up short. But I suppose he doesn't really have an eye for anything nowadays.”

“Are things with him that bad?” Jo asks, stirring cream into her coffee.

“A part of himself seems to have just vanished.” Anna says. “I've seen him when he's caught up in a project in the past, but this is something else. He's turned into a shell of the person he used to be, although because it's Gabriel, a shell that seems to look better than the average person. I do my best. I do as many shows as I can with different companies to fill his theaters. I hold him up at a show when he should be doing that for me.” She sips her coffee before also adding, “And not to be insensitive, Jo, but I make sure he steers clear of train tracks.”

“That's probably a good idea.” Jo says.

“I've known him since I was his student, I can do at least that much for him.”

Jo nods. She wants to keep asking more questions, but she decides to save them for someone she's been meaning to visit for a while now. The rest of Jo's visit with Anna reduces to talk about fashion and art movements. Anna insists on making her a more toned down version of the Chinese dragon suit redesigned as a robe in pink and turquoise, finishing a new sketch on minutes.

“When I decide my time's come, I'm gonna leave it all to you, Jo.” Anna says before Jo leaves. “I don't know anyone else's hands it would be better in.”

 

The office is big but it looks much smaller because of the things it contains. While the walls are still made of frosted glass, once again, they're covered by cabinets and shelves. The drawing table by the window is almost completely hidden by all the papers diagrams and blueprints it's covered with. The trenchcoat clad man behind it is almost invisible as well, blending with the surroundings. The sound of his pencil scratching the paper is once more in sync with the clock in the corner.

It's nearly identical to the one he had in Springfield, then Frankenmuth, before he moved once again to here in New York City.

Castiel sets his pencil down and pours a cup of coffee for himself. He almost drops it when he looks up and sees Jo Harvelle in the doorway.

“Looks like your assistant has disappeared for the moment.” She says. “Didn't mean to disrupt you.”

“It's all right.” Castiel says, setting down his coffee mug on his desk before standing up from his desk. “Thought you weren't coming until later tonight.”

“Took an earlier flight.” Jo says. “Wanted to see you.”

“Any time with you is always pleasant.” Castiel says. “Coffee?”

Jo nods and navigates around the office to the chair on the other side of the desk.

“Remember what we discussed when I visited you in Frankenmuth?” She asks before she even sits down.

“I thought you would've.” He says without looking up, keeping his attention on the coffee pot as he pours.

“I'm a completely different person now, Cass. Just because my mom isn't here anymore for you to fall in love with, doesn't mean you can just ignore me.”

He sets the coffee pot down and preps it for her, knowing how she likes it without asking.

“I asked her to marry me and she never got the chance to answer me.” He says as he stirs the cream in.

“You asked her before she took off to find John Winchester.” Jo says. “How could she have known you meant it, instead of asking out of obligation?”

He hands her a coffee mug, resting a hand over hers as she takes it.

“I love you.” He says. “I loved her too but it was different. You're like family to me, all of you. Maybe even more.”

He sits back down, removing his trenchcoat to lay it over his chair.

“Don't know why I bother wearing this thing.” He says, looking down at it. “Season hasn't been appropriate in years.”

“It's because it suits you.” Jo says.

“Thank you.” He says as he puts it back on, watching her as she sips her coffee. “I can still be there for you.”

“I know.” Jo says. “I'm pretty sure I want you to be.”

“Take all the time you need.” Castiel says. “We got nothing but time, don't we?”

Jo nods, setting her mug back down.

“My Mom was always the more level headed and rational one.” She says. “We we're like the yin and yang, that's why we worked so well together. She stopped me from going off the deep end with my imagination. I saw things up close in detail, while she saw things from a distance. That's why she's not here instead of me. I've been getting better at seeing the whole picture, instead of ignoring the things that don't fit.”

The ticking clock is louder at the pause in the conversation.

“I don't want to talk about this.” Castiel says once the ticking starts to get on his nerves. “I had it with you already, and I don't feel like having it again.”

“You know what's really going on, don't you?” Jo asks.

Castiel straightens out a like if papers in his desk while he thinks of his answer.

“Yes.” He says. “I do.”

“Did you ever tell my mom?”

“No.”

“Then you can tell me.” Jo says.

"No, I can't. To do that would be to break a years long promise, and I'm not going to do that. Not even for you.”

“How many lies have you ever told me?” Jo asks, standing up.

“ _None._ Not even one.” Castiel argues, also standing up. “I just keep to myself what I don't have permission to talk about. I gave them my word, and I'm keeping it, but I have never outright lied to you. You never really came.out and asked me, either. You just assumed I was just as clueless as the rest of you.”

“I _did_ ask you.” Jo says.

“Not outright.” Castiel says. “You didn't really know what you were trying to ask me, and I wouldn't have answered you anyway. I was worried about you, so I sent you in John Winchester's direction for your answers. If your mom hadn't gone instead, it would've been you at the station. I don't even know if she actually met him, and I didn't ask.”

“John's in on this too?” Jo asks.

“It's my belief there's little to nothing he doesn't know about.”

Jo sighs and sits back down. She picks up her coffee mug and then sits it back down without taking a sip.

Castiel goes over to her side if the desk and takes her hands, making sure she's looking at him as he speaks.

“If I could tell you, I would.” He says.

“I know that, Cass.” she says. “Really, I do.”

She squeezes his hands in reassurance.

“I'm really okay with this, Jo.” Castiel says. “I just move my office every few years, hire new people. Keep up with new circus projects through letters and emails, it's not hard considering what I'm getting out of it.”

“I get it.” she says. “Where's the circus at the moment?”

“Not sure. Last I remember, it left Pittsburgh, though I don't know where it's going next. But I know how I can find out; Donatello will know and I owe him an email.”

“How would Donatello Redfield know where the circus is going to be?”

“Sam Campbell tells him.”

Jo doesn't push for more answers.

Castiel is relieved when she says yes to a dinner invite, and more when she says yes to extend her stay in NYC before chasing down the circus.

 

Jo invites Sam to join her at the Shinola Hotel in Detroit as soon as she's in the city. She waits in her room, to steaming small cups of espresso with matching saucers on the table in front of her.

When Sam knocks on the door, they greet each other warmly. Sam asks about Jo's trip here before talking about the city and hotel, including the amazing room Jo has booked for herself.

“It's like the acrobat tent, after the performance ends.” Jo notes, looking up at the high ceiling, adorned with a detailed painting.

“You haven't visited the circus in a while.” Sam says. “We still have your costumes, if you wanted to be a statue for tonight.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Jo says. “I don't think I could take having to stand so still.”

“Offer still stands.” Sam says.

“I know.” Jo says. “But truth be told, I'm actually not here for the circus. I wanted to talk to you.”

“What could you possibly want to talk to me about?” Sam asks, immediately concerned Jo might be slipping again.

“My mom was hit by an Amtrak at Union Terminal, after a visit to the Renaissance Cincinnati Downtown Hotel, when that was supposed to be me.” Jo says. “Do you know why she insisted on going instead?”

Sam clenches his fist.

“I know who you were supposed to be meeting.” He says, careful not to give anything away.

“Castiel told you, didn't he?” Jo asks.

Sam nods.

“Do you know anything about why I was planning on seeing him?” Jo asks.

“No, I don't.”

“Because I felt like something was wrong with me.” Jo says. “I know down to my soul that the world is changing, and I've yet to be given an explanation, nothing to give me closure, to grasp. We all feel the same way and we all deal with it in our own unique style. Castiel and Anna bury themselves in their work, to distract them. I didn't think much of it for years. I love my mom, always will, but I think we made a mistake.”

“I thought your mom's death was an accident.” Sam says quietly, looking down at the polished wood table.

“Not that. The mistake was me asking questions to the wrong people. It's not something I plan on doing again.”

“So that's why you're here now.”

“Yes, that's why I'm here now.” Jo says. “How long have we been friends, Sam?”

“Little over ten years.”

“You have to know by now you can tell me anything about what's really happening. I know you're not dumb enough to say nothing, or tell me to not worry about it.”

Sam sets his cup on its saucer. He tries to explain the best way he knows how. He skimps on the details, sticking to the simple facts about the game, and how the circus is where it's being played. How some more know more than others on different levels, though he chooses not to name names and makes sure Jo understands even he doesn't know everything.

Jo says nothing, just keeps listening and occasionally sips her espresso.

“How long has Castiel been in on this?” She asks once Sam's done.

“A very, very long time.” Sam says.

Jo nods and lifts her cup to her mouth, but instead of sipping her espresso, she opens her hand, dropping the cup.

The cup falls, shattering into pieces on her saucer.

The sound echoes throughout the room, the espresso spilling out over the table.

Before Jo or Sam can say anything, the cup has fixed itself. The broken pieces put themselves back together around the drink and the cup sits intact, the wood surface of the table stain free.

They're alone, so nobody barges in to see what the noise was.

“Why didn't you stop it mid air, so it wouldn't break?” Jo asks.

“I don't know.” Sam says.

“If there's anything you need from me, please ask.” Jo says as she stands up to go. “I'm sick of everyone keeping everything hush-hush to the point where someone innocent gets hurt. We're all a part of your game, and we're not as easily fixed or interchangeable as a coffee cup.”

Sam sits by himself for a while after Jo leaves for the circus, both cups of espresso going cold.


	47. King and Lionheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And in the sea that's painted black  
> Creatures lurk below the deck  
> But you're a king and I'm a lionheart."
> 
> \--Of Monsters and Men, "King and Lionheart"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance if Dean seems a little OOC here. But I'm trying to stay as close to the book as possible.

_Dublin, Ohio, June 2018_

After the illusionist takes a bow and disappears before his audience's eyes, they applaud, the claps echoing through the empty space. They rise up from their seats and some of them talk amongst themselves, gushing over certain feats they found incredible as they make their way out the door that's suddenly reappeared where it stands on the side of the tent.

One man, still sitting in one of the outer chairs, stays put as everyone else leaves. His eyes, hidden in the shadow cast by the sunglasses he's wearing despite the lack of sun, are fixated on the spot where Sam stood a moment ago, right in the center of the circle.

The rest of the audience finally leaves.

The man stays where he is.

After a few minutes, the door disappears again into the wall of the tent, invisible to the naked eye once again.

The man's attention isn't wavering. He doesn't even look up at the door as it vanishes.

One more moment later, and Sam Campbell is sitting right in front of him, turned slightly to one side and resting his arms on the back of his chair. He's still dressed in his latest animated creation for his performance, in a suit adorned with a stormy sea that's also made of puzzle pieces, turning to fit together all along his chest and waistline.

“You came to see me.” He says, not bothering to try and hide how pleased he is.

“Had time off.” Dean says. “And you haven't been close to Springfield in a while.”

“We'll be there in the fall.” Sam says. “Kind of a tradition by this point.”

“Didn't want to wait that long before hanging with you again.”

“Good to see you too.” Sam says quietly. He reaches out and straightens Dean's crooked sunglasses.

“Do you like the Heaven attraction?” Dean asks

He takes Sam's hand as Sam lowers it.

“Yes, I do.” He says, his breath catching as Dean closes his hand over his. “You got our own Castiel to help out with it, didn't you?”

“Of course I did.” Dean says, brushing his thumb over Sam's wrist. “Thought I could use some help with the balance. Besides, you got the Carousel and we're collaborating on Pan's Labyrinth, I wanted my own Castiel original.”

The intense stare in both Dean's eyes and touch wash over Sam like a hot wave and he takes his hand from Dean's before he's in too deep.

“You here to show me some tricks of your own?” Sam asks.

“Wasn't planning on it, but since you asked…”

“You've seen me already. Fair’s fair.”

“I could see you a hundred times and it wouldn't get old.” Dena says.

“I think you already have.” Sam says. “You were in here all night, which I definitely noticed.”

He stands up and walks to to the middle 9f the circle, turning so it looks like the waves on his animated suit are swirling around him.

“I see every single seat in this tent.” Sam says. “Nobody can hide from me, not even you, Mr. Back Row Seat.”

“Was worried I'd be unable to stop myself from standing up just to be even closer to you if I sat in the front row.” Dean says, getting up from his chair to stand along the edge of the space, just barely inside the first row.

“Am I in a good spot for your illusion?” Sam asks.

“If I say no, will you come closer anyway?” Dean challenges, not bothering to hide his teasing smile.

In response, Sam does get closer, the bottom of his suit pants brushing over Dean's shoes. Close enough for Dean to gently lift an arm and rest his hand on Sam's wrist.

“You weren't touching me last time.” Sam notes, but doesn't object.

“This is something extra special.” Dean says.

“Want me to close my eyes again?” Sam asks in his own teasing tone, but instead of an answer, Dean spins Sam around until he's facing away from Dean, keeping one hand on Sam's wrist.

“Trust me.” Dean whispers in Sam's ear.

The stripes of the tent go stiff, the surface going hard as the canvas turns into paper. Scribble and words appear all over the walls, names of monsters appearing next to the drawings. Sam can make out a description of a Wendigo as well as a drawing of a devil's trap as more words and drawings foll the tent. It covers the walls, ceiling, and even spreads out over the floor.

“Whaddya think?” Dean asks, once the words stop appearing and they stand inside an enlarged version of his dad's hunting journal.

Sam just nods.

Reluctantly, Dean lets Sam go, following as Sam walks along the walls to get a closer look at the descriptions and drawings.

“How did you come up with this?” he asks, putting one hand on the now papered wall. It's warm and solid under his hand, almost lighting up like fireflies.

“Imagination. And my dad's journal.” Dean says. “And dreams. I tried to think of something you'd like.”

“I'm pretty sure focusing on making your opponent happy isn't how this is supposed to work.” Sam says.

“Yeah, well, neither of us really get what the rules are, so screw it. I'm going with my gut.”

“My grandfather is still being dodgy about the rules.” Sam says as they walk along the walls. “Especially when I ask stuff about how we know who wins.”

“Same goes for my dad.”

“Hope he's not as annoying as my grandfather.” Sam says. “But it's not like he's got a choice, with nothing better to do.”

“Haven't seen him in years.” Dean says. “Since this whole game started he's been... distant and stubbornly quiet, but he's all the family I have. And still he doesn't tell me anything.”

“Call me the green eyed monster then.” Sam says. “Cause instead, I'm treated to my grandfather telling me how disappointed he is in me.”

“Please. You, a disappointment? I don't think so.” Dean says.

“You've never even met my grandfather. How would you know?”

“Why don't you start by telling me what really happened to him?” Dean asks. “I'm intrigued.”

Sam sighs before starting, pausing by several drawings of different sigils. He's never talked about this to anyone, doesn't think anyone would really get it even if he tried.

“Mr grandfather always had a bit of a huge ego.” He begins. “What he tried to do, he didn't succeed, at least not how he planned. He wanted to master astral projection.”

“Is that even possible?” Dean asks. Sam appreciates how Dean doesn't immediately write it off as nonsense. Although judging by this tent, he seems to know more than Sam assumed. Maybe explaining it won't be so difficult.

“You know the supernatural is real.” Sam says. A small table and a bald figure appears in front of him. “Thanks. If done correctly, what are some of the benefits of mastering astral projection?"

“You could go anywhere. Learn anything without anyone knowing you're even there.” Dean says.

“Exactly.” Sam says. “My grandfather wanted a way to kill monsters without them ever knowing it was him that killed them.” As he speaks, a ghostly thing emerges from the figure. “But he got cocky, thought he was above the rules and got way in over his head. So, I suppose, he did technically die. But, naturally, now he's a vengeful spirit. Had he attached himself to something else, he probably wouldn't be haunting me as much. But he attached to the ring in my skin. So now he follows me nearly everywhere, but I can duck him if he becomes too much. He hates when I do that, particularly since it wasn't something he taught me himself.”

“Could someone actually do it?” Dean asks. “Mastering astral projection? The right way, I mean.”

Sam looks at the ghostly thing hovering over the figure. He raises a hand to touch the figure on the table, and it shakes, dividing into splinters and then reforming.

“I think so.” He says. “Under very specific conditions. You'd need the right spell. The right ingredients, a place in mind where you want to go. I'd guess that my grandfather just wanted the world he knew growing up to become a reality once again.”

He touches the figure again, and it turns into a glass of wine, and he picks it up, and throws the liquid on the wall, the wine slowly seeping into the paper.

“You're changing my tent.” Dean says, looking at the stained wall.

“You didn't stop me.” Sam says. “I didn't even know if it would work.”

“Could you do it?” Dean asks. “Astral projection?”

Sam regards the stain for a moment before answering.

“If I thought it might benefit me, I think I could.” He says. “But I like it down here on the earth plane. My grandfather was starting to feel like he wasn't relevant anymore, which had happened long before he'd tried, and he didn't like the idea of just retiring in a cabin somewhere in Indiana. He probably wanted to prove he could write his own future, but I can't say for sure, because I didn't know about it until he'd already messed up. Which left me the burden of answering questions and a hunter's pyre to burn. Which turned out to be a lot easier than you'd think.”

“But he still talks to you?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, only lately it's not as much as he used to. He still looks like he did when he was alive. But now he's more see-through and it drives him crazy. If he'd succeeded, he might've been able to actually do what he was after. Though I don't think I'd want to have all my pears stolen personally, would you?”

“Depends on why they took them in the first place.” Dean says.

He turns to the stain and it starts to glow bright, like a ray of sun shining through the clouds.

As the light increases, it becomes bright enough to where Sam has to close his eyes.

He feels the ground underneath him shift suddenly, knocking him off balance, but Dean keeps a hand on his waist to keep him steady.

When Sam opens his eyes, they're standing on a pirate ship in the ocean.

Only the ship is a pop up, sailing through so many pages of lore books as it sails on the words on the pages.

There's tiny pinpricks of light on the sky, like little stars.

“Thought you'd like to see your animated suit up close and personal. Plus, I found the _Espírito Santo_ in a book on omens, and remembered how you said you didn't get to do a lot of reading growing up.”

Sam walks to the edge of the deck, running his hands on the flimsy crafted rail. There's a soft breeze blowing in his hair, with the scent of freshly printed pages and old books.

Dean goes to stand next to him as Sam looks at the sea that stretches into a horizon with no end in sight.

“Amazing.” He says.

Sam looks down at Dean's right hand on the rail, a frown on his face as he sees Dean's bare unmarked fingers.

“Looking for this?” Dean asks, moving his hand. His skin starts to shift, and there's the scar around his ring finger. “I got that from a ring I put on when I was sixteen. I think it had something written on it, but I couldn't make it out for the life of me.”

“ _Salvis populi, quæ venandi, et familia negotium_.” Sam says. “Saving people, hunting things, the family business. My grandfather said it was a family motto, but I'd never seen it before. More than likely, your ring probably looked like mine.”

Sam puts his hand right next to his, along the rail. The silver piece of metal is engraved with why Dean thought was something more profound, but it's the same phrase. And Sam has no clue it's actually the Winchester family motto.

Sam twists the ring, sliding it down his finger so Dean can see the matching scar.

“Only injury I could never heal.” Sam says.

“Same here.” Dena says, looking at Sam's ring though his eyes keep drifting to the scar. “But mine was good. Yours was made by something of my dad's?”

Sam nods.

“How old were you?”

“Six. It was just a plain silver ring. First time I'd actually met someone who knew the things my grandfather did, but he was very different from my grandfather. He called me a handsome young man. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.”

“It doesn't do you justice.” Dean says, putting his hand on Sam's.

There's a sudden breeze at the flimsy sails

The pages underneath them as the 4he surface starts to ripple.

“Was that you?” Dean asks.

“Not on purpose.” Sam says, but he doesn't remove his hand.

“I'm cool with it.” Dean says, entwining his fingers with Sam's. “I can do it too, you know.”

The wind blows harder, sending more waves splashing against the side of the ship. The ship tilts slightly, and Sam almost loses his balance again, but Dean wraps his arms around Sam's waist to steady home while Sam laughs.

“Very impressive, Mr. Illusionist.” Sam says.

“Say my name.” Dean says. He's never heard Sam say his actual name, and holding Sam like this is making him ache to hear Sam say it. “Please.” He adds when Sam still hesitates.

“Dean.” Sam says, voice low and soft. The sound of his name on Sam's tongue is even better than he thought, and he has to lean in to get another taste.

Just before Dean can kiss him, Sam turns away.

“Sammy…” Dean sighs against Sam's ear, filling Sam's name with all the need and frustration Sam's feeling himself, Dean's breath hit on his neck.

“Sorry.” Sam says. “I just... don't want to make this more confusing than it already is.”

Dean doesn't reply, keeping his arms around Sam, but the breeze finally settles, the crashing waves finally calming down.

“I have spent nearly my whole life trying to keep my emotions in check.” Sam says, leaning his head against Dean's shoulder. “To know every single thing I have done, am doing, or am going to do, at every single moment. But I lose sight of that when I'm close to you. It scares the crap out of me, and--.”

“I'm not trying to scare you, Sam.” Dean interrupts.

“It scares the crap out of me because of how much I _like_ it.” Sam finishes, turning to look back at Dean. “How easy it would be to let go of all of my sense of control. To just let the chips fall where they may. To lean on you and let you stop me from breaking things instead of having to do it myself all the damn time.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can.”

They stay like that for a while, standing silently together as the ship moves towards the ever expanding horizon.

“Let's get out of here.” Dean says. “I don't care where we go. Away from the game, from my dad and your grandfather.”

“You know we can't do that.” Sam says.

“What the hell are you talking about? Of course we can!” Dean insists. “You and me against the world, we'd come out on top.”

“No, Dean.” Sam says. “That's only if we stay here.”

“I don't get it.”

“Ever actually thought about it, about just leaving? Like actually made a plan and had every intention of actually doing it and not just some flight of fancy?” When Dean doesn't answer, Sam keeps going. “Go ahead. Try and think about it. Right now. Actually picture us just packing up a car and just going, and actually believe it.”

Dean closes his eyes and starts to plan it out in his head, focusing not on the passing thought but the important details. Organizing Gabriel's books for a new accountant to packing up his clothes into his Baby, even down to the wedding rings on their hands.

But suddenly, his hand starts to burn, like someone took a white hot branding iron to it, starting at the scar around his finger and steadily creeping up his arm, making him forget everything. It's just like when he first put the ring on, only magnified.

The moving ship stops immediately. The paper starts to crumple and the ink starts to fade, until they're both back among the circle of chairs inside Sam's black and white striped tent, and Dean promptly collapses to the ground.

The pain eases a little when Sam kneels down next to him and takes one of Dean's hands.

“Night of the anniversary.” Sam says. “When you kissed me. That's when I first thought it. I wanted to stop, throw it all away to be with you. I was gonna ask you to take off with me, and I meant it too. The second I actually started to believe we could do it, I was in this unimaginable pain that was both indescribable and yet somehow familiar. Donatello didn't know what to do with me, he just pulled me to a corner, helped me through it and didn't ask any questions when I couldn't tell him what was going on, cause he's really that nice of a guy.”

He looks down on the scar on Dean's hand as Dean struggles to breathe.

“I thought maybe it had something to do with you.” Sam says. “Once I even tried to not get on the train as it was leaving, and the same thing happened. We're completely and utterly bound to each other.”

“...You wanted to leave with me too?” Dean says, smiling despite the pain. “I didn't realize I was that good of a kisser.”

“You didn't have to let me remember it. Could've reached into my head and pulled it out just like with everyone else at the party.”

“That wasn't an easy thing to do.” Dean says. “And anyway, I wanted you to remember.”

“There's no way I wouldn't.” Sam says. “Still hurting?”

“Like hell. But the pain's slowly ebbing away. I told my dad I wanted to quit that night. Guess I didn't mean it as much as I thought. I just wanted to get a reaction from him.”

“More than likely it's to make us think we're not trapped here.” Sam says. “We don't feel it if we don't test it. My grandfather's always telling me it would be better if we didn't get so wrapped up in each other. Maybe he's right.”

“I've tried.” Dean says, cupping Sam's face in his good hand. “I've tried walking away from you and I just can't. All I ever do is worry about you. Dream about you, even. You can't tell me you don't feel the same.”

“I do.” Sam says. “You're here, in all of my surroundings. I'm always in Immersive Reality just so I can feel it, the way you're making me feel now. Hell, even before I knew you were my opponent, and every time I think it couldn't feel stronger, it does.”

“Then why can't we just be together now?” Dean asks. He slides his hand down from Sam's face, following the neckline of Sam's suit.

“I want to.” Sam says, gasping when Dean's hand moves lower. “Believe me, there's nothing I want more. But we have other people to think about, not just us. They're all tangled up in this game. It's getting harder and harder to keep everything under control. And this--” Sam rests his hand on Dean's. “--is extremely distracting. I'm worried what will happen if I lose my focus all together.”

“You don't have a battery.” Dean says. Sam looks at Dean, confused.

“A battery?” Sam repeats.

“Like how I'm using the bonfire as my rechargeable battery. I borrow energy from the fire. You really haven't been using anything like that at all, everything up to now has been all you?”

“It's all I know how to do.” Sam says.

“That have something to do with how you're controlling the circus?” Dean says.

Sam nods. “But I'm used to it. Most of the time it's under control.”

“That's gotta be like running a marathon every day.”

Dean gives Sam a small kiss on the forehead before letting go, staying as close as possible without actually touching.

Then he tells Sam stories. Myths he'd researched for hunts. Fantasies he'd made up when he was bored, inspired by all the books he'd read for the game. Circus attractions larger than life, that could never be dwindled down to a tent.

Sam responds with stories of his childhood spent in a back room while Samuel Gabe his seminars. Adventures in cities the circus came to. He recalls moments from his fake medium days, happy to see Dean thinks the whole idea is just as dumb as he did.

They sit and talk until the crack of dawn, and Dean leaves only when the circus is actually about to close.

Dean holds Sam to his chest for a moment before standing, pulling Sam up with him.

Dean pulls a card from his pocket that only has the initials D.W. and an address.

“Haven't been crashing at Gabriel's lately.” He says. “When I'm not there, you can find me here. Feel free to stop by whenever you want, be it in the middle of the night or early in the afternoon. Anytime you're looking for a break.”

“Thanks.” Sam says. He turns over the card and it disappears.

“After all this is done, regardless of the outcome, I'm not gonna let you slip away so easily. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Dean takes Sam's hand again and brushes his thumb over the silver ring that hides Sam's scar.

Sam traces the line of Dean's chiseled jaw with his fingertips. Then he turns away, vanishing before Dean can reach out to pull Sam back to him.


	48. Tears in My Beers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nuts are being particularly difficult to pick as Jack tries to go up and down to pick the fresh harvest.
> 
> Then he hears a voice behind him.
> 
> “Hello Jack.”

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 30, 2019_

The nuts are being particularly difficult to pick as Jack tries to go up and down to pick the fresh harvest. They've resisted pulling, yanking, swearing and clipping, insisting the vines they rest on is better than the basket in his hands, no matter how much Jack tries to pluck them.

Then he hears a voice behind him.

“Hello Jack.”

Ali looks completely out of place, for some reason, standing on the other side of the fence. The daylight is too bright, the surroundings too vibrant. Even her clothes, despite them being her undercover wear and not her circus costume, are too fancy for this setting. Her short skirt is too frilly for everyday wear; despite her boots being dusty, they're not build for walking around a farm. She's not wearing a hat, her black hair hanging down, whipping around her head in the wind.

“Ali. Hi.” He says once the surprise of her visit passes. “What brings you to my side of town?”

“There's something I need to talk to you about.” She says. “Something I need to ask you, actually.”

“Couldn't you just ask me tonight?” Jack asks. Meeting up with Ali and Max almost to the second it first opens every night had become a routine for him.

Ali shakes her head.

“This way you have more time to think about it.* She says.

“About what?”

“About coming with us.”

Jack blinks at that. “What?” He manages to get out.

“Tonight's the last night.” She says. “And when we leave, I want you to come with.”

“You have to be kidding.” Jack says.

Ali shakes her head again.

“I swear to God I'm not. I wanted to wait until I knew for sure I needed to ask, and now I am. It's really important.”

“What are you talking about? How is it important?” Jack asks.

Ali sighs. She looks up, squinting like she's searching for the constellations in the sky covered in clouds.

“I know you're meant to be with us.” She says. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

“But why? Why does it have to be me? What, I'm just along for the ride? I'm not like you and Max, I don't have any special abilities. I wouldn't belong there!”

“Yes you do! I know you do. I may not know exactly why, but I know you belong with me. With us.” Ali starts to blush like mad.

“I want to, I do. I just…” Jack looks around at the plants, at the house and the barn up on the hill covered in trees. Either this was the solution to his debate over Harvard vs the farm, or this would be the thing to ruin everything forever. “I can't just leave.” He says, thought that's not exactly what he's trying to say.

“I know.” Ali says. “I'm sorry.” She lifts her eyes to the sky again, scowling before she turns back to Jack. “If you don't come, the circus is done. Don't ask me why, they won't tell me.” She gestures at the sky, at ewh constellations beyond the clouds. “All they tell me is if the circus is going to keep going, you need to be a part of it. You, Jack. You, me and Max. I don't know why it absolutely has to be a three of us, but that's what they say. If not, the circus will just fall apart. It already is.”

“What do you mean it's done? It's in perfect condition!”

“You can't see it with the naked eye. It's...if one of these plants was dying, would I see it from here?”

“Most likely not.”

“But you'd know?” Ali asks.

Jack nods.

“That's how it is with the circus. I know how the circus is supposed to feel, and it doesn't, hasn't for a while. I know in my gut something is wrong and I feel it all coming crashing down like a tower with not enough mortar to hold itself together and I don't know what's causing it. Make sense?”

Jack just stares at her blankly, and she sighs before trying again.

“Remember the night we were in Pan's Labyrinth? When we got stuck in the room with Gog and Magog?”

Jack nods.

“Never in my life have I ever gotten stuck in Pan's Labyrinth. Not once. If there's ever a time where we're stuck in a room or a hallway, I can focus my ability and feel where the right door is. I know what's in the next room. I try not to do that because where's the fun in that? But that night, I had to, because we couldn't figure it out, and it didn't work. It's all starting to feel foreign and I have no idea how to fix it.”

“But what does any of that have to do with me?” Jack asks.

“You found the swords, remember?” Ali says. “I've been searching like mad for answers, and the only thing that's completely clear is you. I know I'm asking too much, asking you to uproot your entire life on the farm and leave your family behind, but the circus is my entire life and my family, and I can't lose them. Not if I know there's a way I can stop it. I'm really sorry.”

She sits in the top rail of the fence, facing away from him. Jack sits next to her, still facing the field and imposing rows of nuts. They sit in silence for some time. Birds fly in lazy circles, pecking at the nuts.

“Do you like it here, Jack?” Ali asks, looking out over the farm.

“Not really.” Jack says.

“Ever wanted someone to come and take you into a completely new world?”

“Did Max tell you that?” Jack asks, wondering if he's thought about it enough to where it sits on him, easy to pick up on.

“Nope.” Ali says. “Lucky guess. But he did ask me to give you this.” She pulls a tiny bottle from her pocket and hands it to him.

Jack already knows despite it looking like just an empty bottle, it's more than likely anything but, and he's too curious for his own good to not open it the second it's in his hands. He pulls out the small cork, relieved it's attached to the bottle once he gets the bottle open.

The smell within feels so familiar, so comforting and recognizable, so real Jack can feel the rough bark, the smell of acorns, even the chittering of the squirrels and birds.

“He wanted you to have your tree with you.” Ali says. “If you say yes.”

Jack puts the cork back in the bottle. Neither of them says a word for some time. The breeze pulls at Ali's hair.

“How much time do I have to answer?” Jack asks softly.

“We leave once tonight's finished.” Ali says. “The train's already gonna be set up before dawn, but I hope you'll come before that. Leaving is kind of... complicated.”

“I'll take the offer seriously.” Jack says. “But no promises.”

“Thank you, Jack.” Ali says. “But can you promise me one thing? If you decide to not come, can you not come back at all? And let this be the last time we see each other? It would be easier for me.”

Jack gives her a blank stare for a moment, her words not really registering. That's even worse than choosing to leave everything behind. But he still nods, because it's the right thing to do.

“Okay.” He says. “Unless I decide to come with, I won't show up. I swear.”

“Thank you, Jack.” Ali says. She smiles, though there's no way to tell if she's actually happy.

Before Jack can tell her to tell Max goodbye for him, she leans forward and kisses him, not just a peck on the cheek, as she has down before, bit right on the lips, and Jack knows he'll follow her, and the circus, wherever they may lead.

Ali turns back without a word and walks away. Jack watches until he can't tell the difference between the sky and her hair, and then still looks where she was, the small bottle in his hand, not sure how to feel it what he's going to do and with only a few short hours to make up his mind.

Behind him, the birds, left unchecked, decide to fly off into the sky above the field beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for artwork goes to myt1prod on DeviantArt


	49. Some Speculation

_Springfield Ohio, October 30, 2018_

When the circus comes back to Springfield, despite Sam being extremely tempted to immediately go to the address Dean gave him to his apartment, which is on the card he's kept on his person at all times, even during his performances, instead he goes to the Westin Great Southern Columbus hotel.

He doesn't ask for any names at the desk.

He doesn't talk to anyone.

He stands smack dab in the middle of the lobby, completely unnoticed by the staff and guests that pass by him on their way to their destinations, their appointments.

After he's been standing there for over an hour, still as one of the circus' human statues, a man in a leather jacket approaches him.

He listens without so much as a flinch as Sam talks, and when he stops talking, the man just nods.

Sam executes a perfect bow, then turns and leaves.

The man in the leather jacket stands by himself, in the lobby for quite a while.


	50. Convergences I: The Snap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She does this now and again, when giving readings has burnt her out or just needs a break. Often she spends it with Lisa, but instead of tracking down the contortionist on this night, she sits by herself at her table, shuffling her cards obsessively.

_Springfield Ohio, October 31-November 1, 2018_

The circus is always abuzz with excitement around Halloween. Round lanterns adorned with crows in trees with bare branches hang in the courtyard, the shadows cast over the white surfaces like ghastly faces.

Masks in black white or silver with ribbons are in baskets next to the gates and all around the circus for patrons to wear, if desired. Though it does make it more difficult to remember who's a performer and who's a patron.

It's a completely different experience to wander through the circus when nobody knows it's you. To seamlessly blend in with your surroundings and becoming a part of the whole experience. Many patrons are in love with the experience, while others find it more disorienting and would rather keep their faces unhidden.

Now that the crowd has thinned out in the hours after midnight as the clock keeps ticking it's way into the real Halloween.

The guests that remains wander like vengeful spirits.

At this hour, the line for the fortune-teller has been reduced to nothing. Most prefer to have their fortunes told earlier in the evening, whole the night is still young. This hour is more for those looking for a less stimulating experience. Earlier, the patrons wouldn't stop coming, but as it slowly bleeds into November, nobody's waiting on the tent, nobody interested in hearing what the tarot cards have to say.

Then the beaded curtain suddenly parts, though she didn't hear anyone come in.

It shouldn't be a surprise what Dean came to tell her. It was all right there in the cards for years, but she ignored them, deciding to leave the interpretation open-ended, to leave room for her.

But hearing it from Dean’s own mouth is something else entirely. The second Dean starts telling her, a memory long forgotten is suddenly brought back to the front of her mind. Two figures in brilliant green in the center of a colorful ballroom, so completely and irrevocably in love the entire room could feel the heat from the friction.

She asks him to draw one card. The fact that Dean does surprises her.

But the card he draws from the deck, _Pýthia_ , does not.

When he leaves, Pamela removes her sign for the night.

She does this now and again, when giving readings has burnt her out or just needs a break. Often she spends it with Lisa, but instead of tracking down the contortionist on this night, she sits by herself at her table, shuffling her cards obsessively.

She flips one card faceup, then another, then another.

Only swords are revealed. Line after line if this in pointed rows. 2. 6. 5. The ace.

She pushes them all back into a pile.

She discards her cards and instead turns her attention to something else.

She keeps the box underneath her table. It's one of the safest places she could find, where she could have easy access. More often than not, she doesn't even remember it's there, hidden under the smooth velvet. The line between her and her clients. An unrelenting anomaly.

Now she reaches underneath the table and pulled it out from the velvet and into the candlelight.

The box is plain and square, covered in white satin. There's no latch or hinge, the lid held shut with three ribbons, black white and silver, tied in meticulous knots.

Pamela puts the box on the table and wipes a layer of dust off the lid, though it sticks to the ribbons anyway. She hesitates, thinking maybe she should just leave well enough alone, put it back where it came from. But it's looking like it won't matter anyway.

She slowly unties the ribbons, using her fingertips to pull the knots out. When they're loose enough for her to open the lid, she pulls it open carefully, like she's scared of what's in it.

Inside the box is a necklace.

It's just as she left it. An old gold horned necklace, showing wear around the cord. It's tied with more ribbons, also in black white and silver, like an over wrapped present. Underneath the knots is a card, and in between the card and the necklace charm there's a handkerchief, edges seen with black leaves. Despite it technically belonging to Sam, even she couldn't explain why she felt like it truly belonged to Dean, only that she did.

It's the simple things. Knots and intent.

She'd laughed when Dean tried to teach her, preferring the cards. They told the truth in a way she could understand compared to the lessons, despite the vague meanings.

It was a safety measure. The right thing to do in times like these when everything is up in the air. Just as easy as bringing sunglasses for a walk on a day covered in clouds, even if there's not one drop off sun.

Though she's pretty sure she's not really doing anything other than taking up space. She doesn't have a way to confirm, no weatherman who already knows the answers. No meter for mayhem. Right now, it's like she's pushing against an abyss.

She lifts the charm carefully from the box, the ribbons falling at the sides. It's strangely beautiful, for being an ugly charm and a handkerchief and a card tied together in worn ribbons. Almost fitting for the occasion.

“The smallest things can have the best outcomes.” Pamela says, surprised when she finds a lump in her throat, almost ready to burst into tears.

The charm says nothing.

“You're not doing a damn thing, are you?” Pamela asks.

Again, the charm has nothing to say.

She was just trying to keep the circus balanced. To stop opposite sides from destroying each other or the world around them.

To stop the scales from being pulled off their resting spots.

Over and over, she sees them in that ballroom.

She remembers bits and pieces of a fight. Dean saying he'd done everything for _him_ , something she hadn't been able to comprehend at that moment and had soon forgotten.

But now she knows.

All the emotions in the cards when she tried to read about Dean's future, it was all for Sam.

And Pamela herself has been trying to help keep it all balanced. Helping Dean. Helping both of them.

She looks down at the necklace in her hands.

White silk wrapped around leather cord, ribbons entwined. Inseparable.

Pamela tears at the ribbons with her fingers, pulling at the bows in a frenzy.

The handkerchief floats like a petal, the initials S.W.C. legible amongst the black vines.

The tarot card falls to the ground, faceup. The image of Adam and Eve is adorned across it, the words _Tous Erastés_ lettered underneath.

Pamela stops to hold her breath. Expecting some sort of consequence, something to make her pay for what she's just done. But it's dead silent. The candles flicker. The beaded curtain hangs still. She's suddenly stuck by the silliness and stupidity of the situation, alone in her tent with a pile of ribbons and an old necklace. She was a complete idiot for thinking she could make a difference. That anything she had to contribute was actually important.

She reaches down to pick up the card, but her hand freezes right before she does so, hearing something. For a hot second, it sounded like a car slamming the brakes and coming to a screeching halt.

It takes a second before she realizes the noise is actually coming from outside the tent, and it's Ali Banes. Screaming.


	51. The Hour of Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ali and Max stand by the gates, well out of the way of the ticket booth, though at this hour the lines significantly shorter. The Soprannaturale clock strikes three times behind them. Max makes his way through a bag of butterscotch covered popcorn.

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 31, 2019_

Ali and Max stand by the gates, well out of the way of the ticket booth, though at this hour the lines significantly shorter. The _Soprannaturale_ clock strikes three times behind them. Max makes his way through a bag of butterscotch covered popcorn.

“Wufju Fay too im?” He asks, mouth full.

“Did my best to explain everything I could.” Ali says. “I'm pretty sure I compared it to a crumbling tower.”

“Well then, obviously it's gonna work.” Max says. “Who doesn't like a good crumbling tower comparison?”

“I'm pretty sure it didn't make a lick of sense. I think he was more upset I told him if he wasn't gonna come, to not come back. I didn't know what else to tell him, I just tried to stress the importance.” Ali sighs, leaning against the wrought iron fence. "I even kissed him.” She adds.

“I didn't need you to tell me to know that.” Max says.

Ali just glares at him, face blushing in stark contrast to her dark hair.

“Not my fault.” Max says with a shrug. “It's like you're not even trying to hide it. If you don't want me to see things, you should practice more. Didn't Sam teach you how?”

“How is it my sight is going to hell, and yours is practically a third eye?” Ali asks.

“I dunno. Luck?”

Ali just rolls her eyes.

“Did you talk to Sam?” She asks.

“Yep. I told him Jack was supposed to come with us. All he said is he wouldn't get in the way.”

“Better than nothing, I guess.”

“He's preoccupied.” Max says, shaking his bag of popcorn. “Won't tell me a thing, and when I was telling him what it was we wanted, it's like he wasn't really listening at all. I could've said we wanted to have a life size voodoo doll to use on unsuspecting patrons and he would've said yes. But Jack's involvement isn't just for the fun of it, is it?”

“I have no idea.” Ali says.

“Well, what do you know?”

Ali looks up at the dark night sky. Dark clouds cover large parts of the constellations, but parts of them peek through.

“Remember when we were in the observatory, and I saw something blinding but I had no idea what it was?”

Max nods.

“It was the courtyard. The whole courtyard, not just the fire. Bright and burning and really hot and nauseating. Then...not sure what caused it, but Jack was there. That I know for sure.”

“And it's happening soon?”

“Really soon, I'd suspect.”

“Should we tie him down and force him to come with us?”

“Max.”

“No, come on. We could totally pull it off. We'll sneak into his house and hit him over the head and drag him here without anyone knowing we were gone. Well prop him up here and people will just think he's a statue that's just sitting. We'll get him on the train before he wakes up, and then that'll be that. Quick and easy. Well, for us anyway. Besides the heavy lifting.”

“I'm pretty sure that whole thing is a bad idea, Max.” Ali says.

“Aw come on. It'll be an adventure!” Max says.

“I don't think so. We already set up the groundwork for the best outcome. Now it's up to him.”

“And you're absolutely positive?” Max asks.

“Not at all.” Ali says quietly.

After some time, Max wanders off to find something else to munch on, and Ali waits by the the gates by herself, now and then glancing over her shoulder to keep checking the time on the clock.


	52. Convergences II: Cerulean Passions and Red Fates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This particular Halloween night is chilly. The restless crowd is covered in heavy jackets. Many of them bear masks, faces disappearing in the intricate designs of black white and silver.

_Springfield Ohio, October 31-November 1st, 2018_

"Any night you go to the circus can be called otherworldly,” Donatello Redfield once wrote, “Halloween is yet another thing altogether. It's like the air itself is coming to life with what lurks underneath.”

This particular Halloween night is chilly. The restless crowd is covered in heavy jackets. Many of them bear masks, faces disappearing in the intricate designs of black white and silver.

The lights are dimmer than normal. It's like any moment, a shadow could come to life and jump out at you.

Gabriel Novak goes straight into the circus without anyone noticing. He picks up a silver mask from a basket next to the gates and puts it over his eyes.

The woman at the booth doesn't recognize him when he pays full admission.

He wanders through the circus like someone who's sleepwalking.

The man in the leather jacket doesn't wear a mask. He walks slow and steadily, taking his time. He's not going anywhere in particular, going from one tent to the next. Some he goes in, others he passes right by. He buys a cup of coffee and stays in the courtyard, looking at the bonfire for some time before he decides to wander back into the pathways.

He's never been here before, and it looks like he's having fun.

Gabriel follows him, everywhere the man goes, he goes. Follows him into the tents he goes in, watches him pay for the coffee. He stares at the ground near the man in the leather jacket's waist, looking at how the man holds himself, though he's constantly blocked by other people in line.

Other than Gabriel, nobody pays any attention to the man. Nobody looks at him, not even a second look despite his build and wearing a leather jacket. Even the girl who sells the coffee doesn't glance at him, already moving onto the next person in line. He walks through the circus like a tiger stalking its prey.

Gabriel loses him in the crowd more than once, the brown falling into a blur of black white and silver from the other patrons. But it never takes long to spot the leather jacket again, but in between the times it takes for Gabriel to spot him again, he starts getting nervous to where he can't stop shaking, fidgeting with his jacket and whatever's in his pockets.

Gabriel utter nonsense under his breath. Only those that pass by him.close enough to hear give him odd looks and do their best to avoid him.

Following Gabriel is a young man he wouldn't recognize even if they were face to face, but the young man still keeps his distance. Gabriel's focus stays only on the man in the leather jacket, and it never wavers to the other man who looks a little like his assistant.

Dean keeps a steady bottle green eye on Gabriel, not wearing a mask on a face only Sam has ever seen, and the illusionist is currently preoccupied.

This goes on for a while. John Winchester takes a tour of the circus at his own pace. He goes to the fortune-teller, who doesn't recognize him, just lays out his future in neat rows of cards, though she admits they're a bit confusing. He watches the illusionist perform. Sam acknowledges his presence with the smallest of nods. He goes through Bloody Mary’s Mirrors, countless men in leather jackets staring back at him. He takes a trip on the Carousel. He seems to be most intrigued by Immersive Reality.

Gabriel follows him through every tent, waiting outside the ones John doesn't pass by, practically sweating in his anxiety.

Dean loses track of them both only once, when he has to attend to another matter.

The clock by the gates ticks off the minutes later and later into the night, the ornaments on it moving and shifting.

October bleeds into November, a change largely unnoticed besides those who happen to be right by the clock.

The crowd starts to thin out. Masks are brought back to the baskets in the courtyard and next to the gates, piles of empty holes and ribbons.

Children are led away with promises they can come back the next night, not knowing the circus won't be there the next night, and upon learning this, those children will feel cheated and lied to.

In a tunnel near the back of the circus, which is wide and only has a handful of patrons in it, John Winchester stops. Gabriel watches him from a small distance, not sure what could've caused him to stop, though he wonders is he's talking to someone. Through his own mask, Gabriel can only see the leather jacket. He sees a sitting duck with nothing in his way.

He hears an echo of a voice assuring him that the man is evil. A person who deserves to die. Nothing but a waste of life.

Then there's a pause. For that small moment, it's like time slows down, like something's trying to defy the laws of physics. The chill that's been in the entire circus suddenly halts. In that moment, there's not a twitch, not a ripple from the tents or the ribbons on the masks.

In the largest tent, after one of the acrobats messes up her routine falling some distance before a fellow performer catches her, only narrowly giving themselves away.

In the courtyard, the bonfire sputters and sparks, creating a massive cloud of smoke, causing patrons close to it to jump back.

The cat that leaps from Ali's hands to her brother's suddenly twists, landing flat on its back instead on its feet and rolling towards Max and howling in protest.

The illusionist stops, his usually seamless performance at a halt as he's suddenly frozen, his face alarmingly pale. He starts swaying back and forth like he might pass out, and several concerned audience members move to help him but he doesn't collapse.

Dean knees buckle like he'd just been punched in the junk be someone unseen. Someone passing by stops to help him regain his balance.

And Gabriel Novak pulls a heavy silver knife from his jacket pocket and he throws it without a second thought.

The knife practically leaps from Gabriel's hand, spinning in perfect circles in the air.

The aim is perfect and direct. There's no way it won't hit its target.

Then the target moves out of the way.

The worn leather that makes up the back of John Winchester's jacket shifts. He moves ever so slightly to one side. It's a calculated step. A natural movement.

The movement causes the knife to only brush past his arm, instead hitting the man he's talking to square in the chest. The blade slides through the unbuttoned coat like butter, hitting the heart like it had been the target all along, the handle sticking out in the middle of his blue blazer.

John Winchester catches Donatello Redfield as he slumps forward.

Gabriel's just staring at his empty hand like he can't remember what he's just done. He hobbles away, wandering back into the courtyard. He forgets to take his mask off when he leaves, and when he finds it in his house the following day, he has no idea how he got it.

John Winchester lowers Donatello Redfield to the ground, talking in a constant stream of words in quiet tones so nobody else can hear. The scattered patrons around them at first Don notice, though some now are distracted by how two young performers a few feet away have suddenly stopped their show, the boy picking up the clearly stressed cats.

After a while, John Winchester stops talking and passes a bare hand over Donatello Redfield's eyes, closing them.

The following silence is shattered by Ali Banes’ screaming as the blood on the ground reaches her boots.

Before the shock turns into a widespread panic, John Winchester gently pulls the silver knife from Donatello Redfield's chest, stands, and walks away.

As he passes by a dazed, still in shock Dean, he hands him the blood covered knife without a word or a second look before he disappears.

The handful of patrons who see the stabbing are quickly sent away. Later they chalk it up to a very realistic stunt. Just another thing planned for the already spooky night.


	53. The Pool of Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my favorite attraction straight from the book, so I made the decision to keep it as it is instead of changing it.

Outside the tent, there's a small box full of smooth black and silver stones. There's text on the box's lid instructing patrons to take one before entering.

Inside, it's dark, the ceiling covered with open umbrellas, the curving handles hanging like stalactites.

Right in the middle of the room is a pool. A small pond enclosed in a wall and surrounded by white gravel.

In the air is a salty scent, reminiscent of the ocean.

You step to the edge to look inside, the gravel crunching underneath your feet.

It's a shallow pond, but it's also luminescent. A shimmering light glows through the surface of the water. It's radiant, soft enough to light up the pool and the stones on the bottom. Hundreds of them, identical to the one in your hand.

The light underneath filters in between the stones, and you think you can make out two words.

"Bitch"

"Jerk"

You don't know what to make of them, but you're immediately distracted by the reflection of the pool rippling around the room, as if the entire room is submerged in water.

You sit on the wall, turning the stone in your hand over and over in your fingers.

The stillness in the tent turns sad the longer you're there.

Memories start coming forward from in the deep recesses of your mind. Things you worked so hard on but failed anyway. Opportunities you should've taken but didn't. Things you should've let go but made worse. Heartbreak, pain, horrible loneliness.

Things you'd thought you'd buried years ago collide with recent ones.

The stone starts to feel more like a boulder in your hand.

When you throw it into the pool to be with its relatives to cover the strange words, you somehow feel lighter. Almost like you let go of so much more than a polished rock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All fan art credit goes to The World is Quiet Here. https://hannahzaki7.wordpress.com/2017/05/01/the-pool-of-tears/amp/?usqp=mq331AQA


	54. Fare Thee Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a whole hour before he's sure everyone's asleep, then waits another hour to be absolutely positive. Though he's gotten really good at sneaking in at both late and early hours, sneaking out is completely different.

_Concord, Massachusetts, October 30 and 31, 2019_

Jack climbs his tree to grab his hidden box before sunset, looking down at the circus bathed in deep orange light, casting shadows across the field. But when he opens it, he's surprised to find he actually doesn't see anything he can't bear to part with.

The only thing he removes is Ali's pocket watch, putting it in his pocket, then returns the box to the tree.

Back at his house, he counts out his savings, which turns out to be a lot more than he was anticipating, and packs a change of clothes and an extra sweater. He considers putting in another pair of shoes, but decides if absolutely necessary, he can always borrow a pair from Max. He shoves it all into a worn backpack and waits for his parents and Jane to go to bed.

While he waits, he unpacks his backpack and repacks it, second guessing what has to be the biggest decision of his life as well as what he should or shouldn't bring with him.

It's a whole hour before he's sure everyone's asleep, then waits another hour to be absolutely positive. Though he's gotten really good at sneaking in at both late and early hours, sneaking out is completely different.

When he slowly makes his way down the hall, he's surprised how late it actually is. He has a hand on the door, ready to go, when he turns around, setting down his backpack and quietly looks for paper.

Once he has a piece, he sits down at the table in the kitchen to write his parents a note. He explains the best he can his reasons for leaving, hoping they understand. He doesn't say one word about Harvard or one detail about the future of the nut farm.

He remembers at a young age his mother telling him she wished for him to have a long and fulfilling life. If this isn't what she was talking about, he's not sure what else would come close.

“Where do you think you're going?” A voice behind him asks.

Jack turns to find Jane standing in the doorway in her pajamas, hair a mess of stringy hair, a blanket around her shoulders.

“None of your business.” He says, turning back to his writing, leaving the letter on the table folded next to the fruit bowl. “See to it they read that in the morning.”

“You're running away?” Jane asks, looking at his backpack.

“More or less.”

“Surely you can't be serious.” She says, yawning.

“Not sure if I'll be coming back. I'll write when get the chance. Tell them not to worry about me.”

“Just go back to bed, Jack.”

“Why don't you go back to bed? Look like crow's feet are walking all across your face earlier than planned.”

In response, Jane just contorts her face into one of complete disgust.

“Anyway,” Jack goes on, “Since when do you care what I get up to?”

“You've been acting like an immature child all week.” Jane says, raising her voice slightly but still keeping it just a loud whisper. “Spending all your time at that stupid circus at all hours of the night. Grow up, _Jack_.”

“Growing up is exactly what I'm trying to do.” Jack says. “I don't care if you approve or not. Staying here will make me miserable. You're just fine with it cause you're completely boring, and you're somehow okay with it. I'm not. I will never be okay with it. So I'm getting the hell out of here. Do me a favor and marry someone who will take good care of the nuts.”

He takes a banana from the bowl and tosses it to catch it in midair, tucking it into his backpack before he tell Jane goodbye with nothing more than a cheerful wave.

He leaves her just standing there with the mouth opening and closing like a dead fish as he closes the door behind him.

Jack walks away from the house pumped with adrenaline. He half expects Jane to come out after him, or immediately wake up their parents and tell them what he's doing. But with every step he takes away from the house, it becomes more and more clear that he's leaving, with nobody stopping him.

In the still night, the walk feels more.long and tedious, with no crowds going towards the circus along his path as there has been every other night, when he'd practically sprinted to get there before the gates opened.

The stars are still shining when Jack gets to his tree, his backpack hanging over his shoulders. He's a lot later than planned, thought dawn isn't due for several hours.

But underneath the starry sky, the stretching field below his tree is completely empty, like nothing was ever in the empty space but grass and leaves.


	55. The Duelists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The figure blocking his path near the edge of the courtyard is see-through, appearing as a spirit in the flow of the bonfire and the gently swaying lanterns. The man in the leather jacket stops, though he could easily keep going through his father-in-law's apparition without a second thought.

_Springfield Ohio, November 1, 2018_

The man in the leather jacket easily slips through the crowd of circus patrons. They get out if his way without a thought of what they're doing, parting like the red sea as he walks towards the gates.

The figure blocking his path near the edge of the courtyard is see-through, appearing as a spirit in the flow of the bonfire and the gently swaying lanterns. The man in the leather jacket stops, though he could easily keep going through his father-in-law's apparition without a second thought.

"Interesting night, ain't it?" Samuel asks him, John drawing odd glances from nearby patrons for staring at what looks like empty space.

John gives the patrons a dirty look, like he's having a stare down with them, and immediately the payrons hurry off, their attention drawn elsewhere.

The crowd keeps moving, going through and back through the gates without noticing John or, in rare cases, the ghost of Samuel Campbell.

"Not even worth the effort." Samuel scoffs. "Quite a number of these people are hunters who have at least one salt and burn under their belts."

"This is too much." John says. "The venue's too vulnerable to exposure."

"That's the fun of it!" Samuel says, waving an arm over the crowd. He passes a hand through a woman's shoulder and she turns at the sudden chill, then keeps moving once she doesn't see anything. "Didn't you use a lot of your manipulation techniques, even after affiliating yourself with Gabriel to manipulate the venue in your favor?"

"I'm not manipulating anything." John says. "All I did was establish confidentiality in the name of keeping the circus mysterious. It was my suggestion to move the thing from city to city unannounced. Both boys are benefitting from it."

"It keeps them separated. If they'd stayed together from the get-go, Sam would've destroyed Dean a long time ago."

"Has you dying made you naive? You were a complete idiot to do what you did, and you're an even bigger one if you can't see how in love with each other they are. If we'd kept them together, all we would've done was speed that up."

"Didn't realize you were a matchmaker, John." Samuel says, his eyes narrowing eyes disappearing and reappearing in the changing light. "My grandson knows better than that."

"Think so? Sam was the one who came to me. I'm here by personal invite, as you--." He stops, seeing a figure in the crowd that catches his eye.

"When did you forget me telling you about not being too close to your son?" Samuel asks, watching the way his son-in-law looks after the distressed young man who passes by without noticing either of them, following Gabriel through the crowd. "Even before the game started, I could see how attached you were to Dean. Shame he'll probably never know that for himself."

"And how many times did your own player decide to end the game themselves?" John asks, turning back to Samuel. "Seven? Is your grandson gonna be magic number 8?"

"That's not gonna happen this time." Samuel responds, every word harsh and heavy despite his translucent form.

"If he wins, he's gonna hate you more than he already does."

"He is gonna win. Don't try and skirt around the fact that Sam's stronger than Dean and always will be."

John hates himself for doing this, but he has to knock Samuel down a peg. "Why don't you listen in to what's happening right now?" Samuel obliges, and he can hear his grandson, repeating Donatello's name repeatedly in a panic.

"You call that strong?" He asks, waiting for Samuel to let Sam's voice blend back into the crowd.

Samuel just scowls, the bonfire making his face distorted.

"Someone innocent died tonight." John continues. "Someone your grandson was very good friends with. If he wasn't breaking already, this will be the thing that does it. Is that what you were after? Have you learned anything after all this time? Nothing is set in stone. No surefire way to know which side will forfeit."

"This is over." Samuel says, disappearing into the shadows.

John starts walking like he never stopped, making his way through the velvet curtains that separate the courtyard from the outside world.

He looks at the clock for a while before finally leaving the circus.


	56. Broken Strength

_Springfield Ohio, November 1, 2018_

Dean's apartment used to be plain and nearly empty, but now it's crowded with mismatched furniture. Pieces Gabriel wanted to be promptly rid of at several points since Gabriel hired him were incorporated into this miniature bunker instead of being tossed.

There's not nearly enough shelves for all the books he owns, so they're sitting on any spare surface available, be it an antique chair or silk cushion.

The clock on the wall is a Donatello original, adorned with a whiskey bottle pouring into a crystal glass as the seconds tick three in the morning.

The books on Dean's desk are moving at a much less steady pace as Dean keeps going back and forth between his handwritten notes, writing down notes and calculations on pieces of paper. Over and over he crosses out symbols and numbers, discarding books in favor of different ones, then winds up going back to the ones he threw aside.

The front door swings wide open by itself, locks coming undone and almost causing the door to fly right off its hinges. The sudden movement makes Dean jump up from his desk, causing a long line to spread across his papers from the pen he was holding.

Sam's standing in the entryway, stray strands escaping his disheveled hair.

His coat adorned with the animation of Jack o lanterns bouncing behind a gray backdrop, to look like an old film strip, is hanging unbuttoned, too light for the weather.

Only when he comes into the room, the door automatically closing behind him and locking with a flurry of clicks, does Dean realize beneath his jacket his vest and undershirt are covered in blood, ruining the bouncing Jack o' lantern animation.

"What happened?" He asks, the hand going for the stray pen halting.

"You know damn well what happened." Sam says. His voice is calm, but already the ink from the stray pen is getting longer

"Are you okay?" Dean asks, trying to move closer to Sam.

"There's no way in hell I could possibly be okay." Sam says, and the stray pen goes flying, sending out sprays of ink all over the papers on the desk and splattering Dean's shirtsleeves, disappearing on his black vest. His hands are now covered in ink, but he's too distracted by the blood on Sam's vest and undershirt, red screaming across the animation and disappearing only briefly behind the trees in the background when it appears.

"Sam, what the hell did you do?" Dean asks.

"I tried." Sam says. His voice breaks on that last word, forcing him to repeat himself. "I tried. I thought I could heal him. I've known him for so many years. Thought I could fix him like he was just a watch that stopped ticking. I knew exactly what the problem was but I couldn't do anything. He was so familiar to me but...it was useless."

The sob building in his chest as he admits this finally comes free. Tears he's been holding back for hours finally fall from his eyes.

Dean makes a beeline across the room to reach out to Sam, pulling him down to his height to he can rest Sam's head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." He says, repeating it over Sam's loud sobs until he finally calms down, the tension releasing from his shoulders as Sam relaxes in Dean's arms.

"He was a good friend." Sam says quietly.

"I know." Dean says, wiping away Sam's tears and leaving ink smudges on his cheeks. "I'm really, really sorry. I have no idea what happened. Something threw everything off balance, and I can't pinpoint what it was."

"Pamela." Sam says.

"What?"

"The charm Pamela put over the circus, over you and me. I knew she'd made it, I could feel its power. I didn't think it was really doing anything, but I guess it was. But I can't figure out why she decided tonight was the night to stop."

Dean sighs.

"She decided tonight was the night because I finally told her I love you." He says. "I should've told her years ago, but instead I waited until tonight. I thought she'd taken it pretty well, but I was dead wrong. I have no idea what the hell my dad was doing there."

"I invited him to come." Sam says.

"You what? Why would you do something like that?" Dean asks.

"I wanted a verdict." Sam says, fresh tears in his eyes. "I wanted it all over with to we could be together. Thought if he showed up he could pick the winner. I don't know how else we're gonna get a verdict. How the hell did Gabriel know he'd be there?"

"I have no idea. I don't even know why he suddenly decided to come, and he insisted on going alone, so I followed him, so I could watch him from a distance. I swear I lost sight of him for only a few minutes when I talked to Pamela, and by the time I'd finally found him again…"

"Did it feel like an earthquake underneath you too?" Sam asks.

Dean nods.

"I was just trying to protect Gabriel from himself." He says. "I didn't even think he'd try and hurt someone else."

"What is all this?" Sam asks, turning his attention to the books on the desk. Endless pages of symbols and sigils are in them, surrounded by texted taken from other books, attached together and written over and over. In the middle of the desk is a leather journal. Inside the front cover, surrounded by an incredibly detailed garden, Sam barely makes out what used to be a newspaper clipping. The only word he can actually read is _unsurpassed_.

"It's how I operate." Dean says. "That one binds everyone in the circus together. It's the safety net, so to speak. A copy of it's in the bonfire, when i put it in there before the lighting, but this one has some adjustments."

Sam goes through the pages of names. He stops on a page containing a scrap of paper that holds the signature of Jo Harvelle, next to a spot where a piece similarly sized has been taken out, only a void in its place.

"I should've put Donatello in there." Dean says. "I never even gave it a thought."

"If not him, it would've been someone else. We can't protect everyone, no matter how much we want to. It's impossible."

"I'm sorry." Dean says again. "I didn't know him as well as you did, but I did admire him and his clocks."

"He had a perspective on the circus I've never been able to have." Sam says. "How it looked from an outsider. We'd been pen pals for years."

"I would've wanted to do the same thing, if I could manage to put into words all the things I've wanted to tell you. All the pens I could get my hands on wouldn't have enough ink."

"But you built me sanctuaries instead." Sam says, looking up at me. "And I built you things you almost never get to see. You've always been all around me and I can't give you anything that comes close you can keep on you."

"I still have your jacket." Dean says.

Sam gives a soft smile as he closes the journal. Next to it, the long line retreats back into the pen, the pen coming back to rest on the desk."

"I think my grandfather would call this working from the outside in, instead of inside out." He says. "He always warned me against it."

"Then he'd really hate the other room." Dean says.

"What room?" Sam asks. The pen settles like it had never been flung.

Dean gestures for Sam to follow, leading him to the connecting room. He opens the door it doesn't walk through, and when Sam catches up, he understands why.

At one point it might've been a living room, it might've even been comfortable if it wasn't covered in papers and strings on every surface.

Strings are hanging from the ceiling fan and loop over to the top of a shelf. They tie together like a web hanging from the ceiling.

On every surface, be it a table, desk, or chair, there's incredibly detailed 3D models of tents. Some made from newspapers, others from different fabrics. Blueprints novels and stationary, folded or cut and shaped into striped tents, tied together with more string in black and white and silver. They're tied to pieces of clockwork, mirror shards, even burned down candles.

In the middle of the room, on a black wooden table painted with white and silver stripes, there's a small cauldron. There's a small fire burning bright, the flames the same color white as the circus bonfire, casting shadows across the room.

Sam takes a small step in the room, ducking to avoid the strings on the ceiling. It's almost like entering the circus itself, even down to the scent of hot butterscotch on the air, but there's another smell underneath it, a heavy scent that smells older.

Dean stays in the doorway as Sam walks through the room carefully, taking care to not let his jacket knock anything over as he looks into the small tents and runs his fingers over the strings and clock pieces.

"You're using some pretty old magic here, Dean." Sam says.

"Only kind I've known growing up." Dean says. He pulls on a string by the doorway and the action ripples into the room, making the model circus sparkle from bits of metal catching on the light. "But I'm pretty sure it wasn't meant to be used for stuff like this."

Sam pauses at a tent with a tree branch covered in a tattered ribbon with an orangey scent. Situating himself there, he finds another one, pushing open the paper door finding a small ring of tiny chairs to represent his own tent.

The pages it's made up of are printed with descriptions of supernatural creatures.

Sam lets the door swings shut on its own.

He finishes his small tour around the room and rejoins Dean in the doorway, pulling the door closed softly behind them.

The familiarity with the circus disappears the second Sam's our of the room, and suddenly Sam can feel every single thing in the connecting room. The warm fire at war with the draft coming from the windows. The smell of Dean's skin underneath the ink and his cologne.

"Thanks for letting me see all of that." Sam says.

"I take it I was right about your grandfather?" Dean asks.

"I couldn't give two shakes of a rat's ass what he thinks about anything anymore."

Sam walks past the desk and stops in front of a shelf, watching the miniature whiskey bottle pour through time on the clock.

Next to it is a playing card. The four of spades. There's no sign on it anywhere it had ever been stabbed by a demon killing knife. No evidence Sam's blood had ever stained it, but he knows it's the same card.

"I could talk to my dad." Dean suggests. "Maybe he saw enough to reach a verdict after all, or maybe all this got us disqualified. I'm pretty sure he's disappointed in me by now, and he could say you won--."

"Stop." Sam says without turning around. *Just stop talking. I don't want to talk about this stupid game."

Dean tries to protest but his voice catches in his throat. He tries to speak, but no matter how much he tries, he can't.

His shoulders fall in defeat.

"I'm sick to death of trying to hold everything together when I know it's impossible." Sam says when Dean approaches.

"Trying to manipulate what can't be manipulated. I'm sick of not going after what I want because I'm so worried about breaking things that can't be fixed. They're gonna break anyway."

Sam leans against Dean's chest and Dean wraps his arms around Sam, stroking his back with one inked hand. They don't move from that spot for a while, accompanied by the ticking of the clock.

When Sam lifts his head, Dean keeps his eyes on Sam's as he slides Sam's jacket from his shoulders, resting his hands on Sam's bare arms.

The familiar electricity Sam always feels whenever Dean touches him shocks his system again, and just like that, Sam's willpower is gone, and he doesn't even care.

"Dean." He says, fingers fumbling with Dean's vest. "Dean, i--."

Dean's lips crush into his, hot and needy, before Sam can get another word out.

While Sam keeps unbuttoning Dean's vest, Dean pulls blindly at Sam's vest, refusing to remove his lips from Sam's.

The animated suit collapses into a puddle around Sam's feet.

They keep removing layer after layer until there's nothing separating them.

Confined by the silence, Dean traces apologies and love letters he should've told Sam a long time ago with his tongue. Expressing in his own way the things he could never bring himself to say out loud.

He finds other ways to tell his little brother, fingers leaving trails of ink in their place. Every sound he can get from Sam, he drinks like a done wine.

The entire room shakes like an aftershock as they finally come together.

Despite there being many things in the room that could easily shatter, everything remains intact.

Above them, the clock continues to pour its whiskey, push droplets to small to discern forevermore.

 

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep. One moment Sam's wrapped up in his arms, his head resting on Dean's chest as Sam listens to Dean's heartbeat, the next he's by himself.

The lights have been turned off. The gray dawn starts to come in through the windows, casting shadows.

On the four of spades next to the clock, there's a silver ring. Dean smiles, slipping Sam's ring onto his ring finger, covering the scar.

He doesn't realize until later the leather bound safety net that was on his desk is gone.


	57. Formalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 4: Incendiary  
> There's still tents I've yet to discover in all of my visits to tell circus. Though if seen many of the sights it has to offer, traveled along many available paths, there's still corners that have yet to be found, doors waiting to be opened.
> 
> \--Donatello Redfield, 2011

_Springfield Ohio, November 1st, 2018_

Sam wishes he could just stop time as he lays there listening or Dean's heartbeat in sync of the clock ticking. To just stay on this moment permanently, wrapped in his arms, hands softly stroking his back. To not have to go.

Sam manages to slow down Dean's heartbeat just enough to where he falls into a deep sleep.

Sam supposes he could wake Dean up, but it's already dawn, and he can't stand the thought of having to bid Dean farewell.

Instead, Sam gives Dean a small kiss on the lips and quietly gets dressed while Dean's still sleeping. He pulls the ring from his finger and leaves it in between Dean's clock and the playing card.

Sam pauses as he puts his suit back on, looking at the scattered books.

Maybe if he had a better understanding of how Dean's system works, Sam could find a way to make it so the circus doesn't need them. So he doesn't have to put so much pressure on himself. So they can be together for more than just a few hours, without toeing the line.

It's the best way for Sam to make it up to Dean for everything, if neither his grandfather nor Dean's dad will give them a verdict.

He picks up the journal filled with everyone's names. Good place as any for a stepping stone, since he already has an idea of what he's trying to do.

He takes it with him as he goes.

Sam closes the door to Dean's apartment as quietly as possible after slipping out into the morning, the journal tucked under his arm. He slides the locks into place with very quiet clicks.

He doesn't notice the apparition hidden in the shadows until it speaks.

"You lying bastard." His grandfather says.

Sam closes his eyes, trying to focus,  it's it's always hard to force Samuel away once he's tracked him down, and he can't do it.

"I'm surprised you waited until I was outside to call me that, Samuel." he says.

"There's so much warding in there it's insane." Samuel says, gesturing to the door. "Nothing's coming in or out of there unless he wants it."

"Good for him." Sam says. "You can leave him alone, and you can leave me alone."

"And just what do you plan to do with that?" He asks, gesturing to the journal.

"None of your damn business." Sam says.

"You can't mess with his work." Samuel says.

"I know. Believe me, I am well aware messing with my opponent's work is one of the few things that is against the rules. I'm not gonna mess with it, I'm just gonna learn how his system works so I don't have to constantly maintain the circus."

"Please. His systems. _John's_ systems are nothing you should be worried about. You're an idiot to think you even have the first clue what you're doing. Guess I bet all my money on the wrong horse for this game."

"Is this not the game?" Sam asks. "How we deal with the consequences of showing people magic in public, who are supposed to be in the dark? It's a test if endurance and strength, not ability."

"You're right about it being a test of strength." Samuel says. "And you've gone soft. Softer than I would've expected from you."

"Then let me forfeit." Sam says. "I'm tired, Samuel. I can't do this anymore. You're acting like after all's said and done, you won't have bragging rights and celebrate with booze once you decide who's won."

"The winner isn't _decided_." His grandfather says. "The game is played out, not forfeited. Surprised you haven't figured that out already. You used to be smart."

Sam glares at him, but at the same time he starts thinking about Samuel's words, stockpiling all the obscure non-answers he's ever gotten about the rules over the years. Suddenly all the details Samuel's always refused to say suddenly become clear, the means of a verdict suddenly understood."

"The winner's the one who's still there after the other player can't endure it anymore." Sam says, the full magnitude of it hitting him full force.

"That's kind of simplifying it, but works just the same."

Sam turns back to Dean's apartment, pushing his hand on the door.

"Stop acting like you're in love with that man." Samuel says. "You're supposed to be above such stupid things."

"You're willing to let me die for this." Sam says quietly. "To let me run myself into the ground just to stick it to Dean's father. You put me on the game board knowing all of this, and you let me think it was just a matter of who made the better tents."

"Stop looking at me like I just shot your dog." Samuel says. "You make me sound like an asshole."

"I can see right through you." Sam snaps. "Not that hard to do."

"It wouldn't be any different if I was still alive."

"And what happens to the circus after the game's over?" Sam asks.

"It's just a venue for the game." Samuel says. "An exhibition. A well decorated landmark. I suppose you could keep it up after you win, though without the game there's really no point."

"And everyone else who got roped into it? There's no point to them either?" Sam asks. "Whatever happens to them, it's just because they get in the way?"

"Every action has a reaction." Samuel says. "That's part of the game."

"Why exactly did you choose to tell me all of this now when you refused to say a word before?"

"Because up till now, I actually thought you were gonna win."

"You mean the one to survive." Sam says.

"Just a formality, really." His grandfather says. "You play a game and finish it by knocking the other player off the board. No way around it. So abandon any ideas you have of playing housewife to that mindless _soldier_ John all but plopped onto the board after it's all over."

"Then who's left?" Sam asks, ignoring that last comment. "You said your player's last opponent won. What happened to him?"

A maniacal laugh echoes through the shadows before Samuel replies.

" _She_ is contorting her body into knots in your so-called precious circus."


	58. Playing with Fire

The only light in this tent is from the fire. The flames are white, just like the bonfire.

You pass a fire eater on a platform in the background. Small bits of fire dance along the sticks he uses while he gets ready to swallow.

On another platform, a woman holds two balls and chains, the balls at the ends on fire. She swings them high, leaving a trail of circles much like sparklers on the fourth of July.

On multiple platforms, torches are juggled, high into the air. Now and then, the performers toss the torches to each other, erupting in sparks.

Elsewhere, hoops on fire are on different levels and performers slip through easily, like they're not on fire at all.

The artist on this particular platform is dressed in a white nightgown, of all things. But she still holds fire in her hands and forms them into all means of shapes. As she continues, the platform rises, until she's close to the ceiling, and only then does she stop what she's doing.

Miraculously, as she leans against the wall, she slowly slides up it, never stopping her concentration, the fire a clear indication there's no strings pulling her up. Once she's smack in the middle of the ceiling, it's quiet for a moment, and then, she throws a manner of flames around her, shooting stars with white tails, flaming phoenixes, and a big burst of flame, completely obscuring her for a moment, but you were assured there was no danger for the patrons.

The flames clear, and you fear the worst despite those reassurances, but there she is, back on the platform, arms raised as she creates flaming butterflies and sends them so close, you can almost touch them.


	59. Lisa Braeden: Contortionist, Player, Lover, Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You need horchata." She adds before Sam can explain what he's doing here. Lisa gets him sitting on a cushion and walks to the end of the car quietly, fetching her supplies to make the horchata.

_En route from Springfield Ohio to Munich, November 1, 2018_

The unremarkable circus train goes through the countryside, puffing out clouds of smoke into the air. The engine is nearly vantablack. The cars that make up the train are close to the same color. The cars that have windows are tinted; the windowless ones are practically midnight black.

It's dead quiet as it moves, no horns or whistles to be heard. The wheels moving on the tracks don't even move, instead they're practically flying, yet still don't make a sound. It goes largely unnoticed along its route, and it never stops.

On the outside, it could look like one of those murder mystery trains, or something similar.

But the inside is a different matter altogether.

The interior is adorned with gilded and warm furnishings. The passenger cars are lined with thick carpets adorned with elaborate patterns, in velvet colors of various reds, purples and creams, like someone bottled the sunset and twilight, and splashed them all over the interior before they could disappear into the night sky.

There's lights Illuminating the corridors, crystals hanging off of them and swinging back and forth in sync with the train. Calming and peaceful.

Shortly after the train leaves, Sam puts the journal in a safe place, hidden in plain sight among his own library.

He changes from his bloodstained bouncing pumpkin suit into one adorned with amazing cloud formations, which had been one of Donatello's favorites in particular.

The clouds form and reform as he makes his way down the train.

He stops at the one door that has a first and last name in the tag next to it.

His polite knock is immediately answered, welcoming him in.

While most of the train's compartments are covered in vibrant colors, Lisa's private car has calming pastels. Empty space covered in bare walls and flowy curtains, scented by the smell of incense.

Lisa sits on the center of the room, wearing a red yoga outfit. A beating heart in the pale room.

And she's not by herself. Pamela is lying in Lisa's lap on the floor, sobbing quietly.

"Sorry to interrupt." Sam says. He hesitates in the open  doorway, ready to close the door again.

"You're not." Lisa says, gesturing for him to come in. "Maybe you'll have better luck than me convincing Pamela she's in serious need of some rest."

Sam says nothing, but Pamela wipes her eyes, nodding as she stands up.

"Thanks, Lise." She says, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. Lisa stays where she is, her focus on Sam.

Pamela stops next to Sam as she makes her way out the door.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Redfield." She says.

"We all are."

For a moment, Sam thinks Pamela's going to hug him, but instead Pamela just nods and leaves, sliding the door closed behind her.

"Those last few hours have been hard on everyone." Lisa says after Pamela's left. "You need horchata." She adds before Sam can explain what he's doing here. Lisa gets him sitting on a cushion and walks to the end of the car quietly, fetching her supplies to make the horchata.

It's not the usual song and dance of straining the almonds, rice and cinnamon she's done for them several times before in the past, but as Lisa slowly prepares two cups of horchata, it's still relaxing and heartfelt.

"How could you not tell me?" Sam asks once Lisa is back to sitting across from him.

"Tell you what?" Lisa asks, smiling over her horchata.

Sam sighs. He wonders if this is how Jo felt over two cups of espresso in Detroit. Sam's extremely tempted to break Lisa's coffee cup, just to get a reaction out of her.

"Did you hurt yourself?" Lisa asks, nodding at the scar on Sam's finger.

"I was all but forced onto a game board about 30 years ago." Sam says. He sips his horchata before adding, "I showed you mine. Show me yours."

Lisa smiles and sets her horchata on the floor in front of her. Then she turns and pulls down  the neck of her tank top.

Close to the collarbone, in between a rainstorm of scarred symbols, in the middle of a King Paimon sigil, is a scar roughly the size of a small ring.

"Scars don't just disappear like the game, as you can see." Lisa says, releasing her tank top.

"One of my grandfather's rings did that." Sam says, but Lisa doesn't confirm or deny it.

"How's the horchata?" She asks.

"What are you doing here?" Sam retorts.

"The circus hired me as a contortionist."

Sam sets down his horchata.

"I don't have time for this, Lisa." He says.

"You might actually get the answers you're after if you asked the right questions."

"Why didn't you ever tell me you knew what was really going on?" Sam asks. "That you'd won the last game?"

"I'd made a pact that I wouldn't say anything unless someone actually called me out on it." Lisa says. "I don't go back on my word."

"Why come at all?"

"I was mildly curious. There hadn't been a game since it was my turn. I wasn't planning on sticking around."

"So why did you?"

"I'm actually fond of Mr. Novak. The game board for my game was a lot more personal, and this was something new. Very rarely do you find places that are actually new. I stuck around to keep watch."

"Watching us?" Sam asks.

Lisa nods.

"Tell me about the game." Sam asks, hoping he gets an actual response to his open ended question now that Lisa's opening up.

"It's more than you're thinking." Lisa says. "I didn't get the rules when it was my turn either. It's not just about flights of fancy. You think adding a new attraction to the circus is the equivalent of a move? It's so much more than that. Everything you say, do, eat and breathe is a move. You're always on the gameboard, you don't get to walk away from it when you're outside the circus. Though you don't exactly have squares on a chessboard to stay on either."

Sam thinks it over while sipping his horchata. Attempting to accept the fact that everything that's happened with the circus, with Dean, has all just been the game.

"Do you love him?" Lisa asks, watching him with thoughtful eyes and a small smile that may be bordering on sympathetic, but Sam's always found Lisa's facial expressions hard to decipher.

Sam sighs again. There's no real point in denying it.

"I do. I really do." He says.

"Do you believe it's reciprocated?"

Sam doesn't respond. The way Lisa said that bugs him. A few hours ago, there wasn't a doubt in his mind. But now, sitting in this scented box, what he'd thought was abiding and indisputable now feels as temporary as this horchata he's drinking. As delicate as a snowflake.

"Love is naive and temporary." Lisa continues. "Rarely ever is it a good place to make decisions from, regardless of which game it is."

Sam closes his eyes to stop his hands from trembling.

It takes longer than he'd prefer for him to regain control of his emotions.

"Pamela was once convinced he loved her." Lisa continues. "She was absolutely positive. That's why she joined the circus in the first place, to help him."

"He does love me." Sam says, but the words aren't as solid coming out of his mouth than they are in his head.

"Maybe." Lisa replies. "Dean's quite the master manipulator. Didn't you both lie to people in your lives before the circus, telling them that they wanted to hear?"

Sam's at a loss in deciding which is worse. Knowing that the game doesn't end until one of them dies, or knowing Dean was playing him for a fool all along. That Sam's just another chess piece on the board, waiting for Dean to knock him off permanently.

"It's how you look at it, contrasting opponents and partners." Lisa says. "You move just slight out of focus and suddenly your opponent is both, neither, or something you hadn't considered. Hard to know which it really is. And there's still a lot of factors you haven't dealt with outside your opponent."

"Didn't you?" Sam asks.

"My game board was nowhere near as extravagant. Less people involved, less moves. Once the challenge was gone, there wasn't really anything worth salvaging. Most of it is now a yoga studio, I think. I haven't been back since my game ended."

"But the circus could always keep going, after this game...ends." Sam says.

"That is a nice thought." Lisa says. "A fitting tribute for Mr. Redfield. Though the mechanics are complicated, getting it to function without you and your opponent. You've put so much of it on your shoulders. You're one of its vital organs keeping it alive. If I put a bullet in your brain, the train would derail and crash."

Sam sets down his horchata, watching the smooth motion of the train send soft ripples through the liquid's surface. Mentally, he calculates how long it would take to make the train stop, how long he could keep himself alive with his brain shutting down. He decides it would have to depend on the placement of the bullet.

"Perhaps." He says.

"If I were to put the bonfire out, or the person that monitors it, that would also cause a problem, would it not?"

Sam nods.

"If you want any chance of this circus staying alive, you've got some work to do."

"That mean you're going to help me?" Sam asks, hoping she can help with deciphering Dean's work, since they both went against Samuel's player.

"No." Lisa says while shaking her head politely, a smile to soften the refusal. "If you truly can't do it yourself, then I'll step in. This has all gone on for way too long already, but I'll give you time to make it work."

"How much time are we talking here?"

Lisa sips her horchata.

"Time. One of the things nobody can control." She says. "To be determined."

They sit in contemplative silence for quite a bit of that time out of their control, the motion of the train gently swaying the curtains, the smell of incense invading their nostrils.

"What happened to your opponent after you won?"

Lisa refuses to look at Sam as she answers, instead staring down at her horchata.

"My opponent, and my son's father, is nothing more than a piece of charcoal in Cicero Indiana." She says. "My son wants nothing to do with me after learning what I did to his father, who's no doubt been taken away by wind and time."


	60. Exodus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers Ali said something about a train.
> 
> Any train around these parts would have to stop in Boston before going to any destination further out.
> 
> Within seconds of remembering this, Jack's already back on his feet, running as fast as his legs will allow towards the depot.

_Concord and Boston, October 31, 2019_

Jack wanders aimlessly around the empty field for a while before he has to accept the circus is really and truly gone. There's nothing there at all, not even one piece of grass bent out of place, to show there'd been anything here just hours ago.

He sits on the ground, head in his hands and feeling completely lost despite having played in these fields since he was a kid.

He remembers Ali said something about a train.

Any train around these parts would have to stop in Boston before going to any destination further out.

Within seconds of remembering this, Jack's already back on his feet, running as fast as his legs will allow towards the depot.

There's no trains in sight once he reaches it, completely out of breath and sore from where his backpack kept hitting his back. He'd been hoping against hope that just maybe, the circus train he didn't even know was real would still be there, waiting for him.

But instead, the depot is all but abandoned; only a couple of people are sitting on a bench on the platform, a man and a woman in blue blazers.

It takes Jack a second to realize they both have star shaped pins on their blazers.

"You alright?" The woman asks as he dashes up onto the platform. Jack can't tell which Southern accent she has.

"Are you following the circus too?" Jack asks, gasping for air.

"Course, ya idjit." The man says with a more rugged accent. "But I think you can see for yourself it's already left."

"It closed early too, but that's not odd." The woman adds.

"Do you know Max and Ali?" Jack asks.

"Who?" The man asks. The woman tilts her head like she doesn't really get the question.

"Twins, perform with cats." Jack explains. "They're friends of mine."

"Oh, the twins!" The woman exclaims. "And their amazing cats. How'd you manage to become friends with them?"

"Long story." Jack says.

"We could use a story while we're waiting." She says, smiling.

"You're heading for Boston too, aren't you?"

"Not sure." Jack says. "I was trying to track down the circus."

"That's exactly what we're doing." The man says. "Though we can't exactly do that until we know where it is. Could take up to a day."

"Hope it's somewhere not ok out of the way." The woman says.

"How are you gonna figure that out?" Jack asks, not willing to get his hopes up again.

"We _Männer aus Briefen_ have our ways." The woman says, smiling. "We've still got some time to wait, should be enough time to get to know each other."

The man's name is Robert, though he prefers Bobby, his wife is Karen. They're on what they're calling an extended holiday, following Le Cirque de la Chasse around to as many stops as they can. Normally they do this when it's closer to their home state of South Dakota, but for this holiday, they decided to chase it around the the other states. They'd been in Ohio before.

Jack tells them the CliffNotes version of how he became friends with Max and Ali, leaving out the more troubling details.

As it gets closer to dawn, another _Männer aus Briefen,_ a man named Rufus who'd been resting up at the local inn and is also headed to Boston now that the circus is gone. He's given a warm greeting, and it's obvious they're old friends despite Karen saying she's not as good friends with him as Bobby. While they wait for the train, Karen takes out a sewing kit and an old blazer.

She introduces Jack as a blazer-less young _Männer aus Briefen._

 _"_ But I'm not a _Männer aus Briefen._ Not really." Jack says. He's still trying to understand what the term actually means.

Karen looks over at him over her sewing, studying him with eyes that remind him of the meaner teachers he had growing up, though he's got at least a few inches on her. She leans forward in a furtive movement.

"Do you love Le Cirque de la Chasse?" She asks him.

"Yes." Jack can say without hesitating.

"More than anything?" She adds.

"Yes." Jack says. He can't stop himself from smiling despite how serious she sounds and his nervous system that are making his heart beat at a steady rate.

"Then you're a _Männer aus Briefen._ " Karen declares. "Blazer or no blazer."

They tell Jack stories of the circus and other _Männer aus Briefen_ . How they're kind of a secret society that tracks the circus when it's moving, telling other _Männer aus Briefen_ so they can go from place to place. Bobby and Karen have followed the circus as often as their schedules allowed for years, while Rufus only makes the effort when it's in or close to his city, so this trip is an extended vacation for him as well, though there's an unofficial club of _Männer aus Briefen_ that has get-togethers now and again, to stay connected when the circus isn't there.

The train finally shows up after the sun is high in the sky, and en route to Boston the stories keep coming, while Karen sews and Rufus props his head up sleepily against a window.

"Where you planning to stay in town?" Rufus asks.

Jack hadn't thought this far ahead, as he'd only considered one step at a time, trying not to think about what would happen once they get to Boston.

"No idea." He says. "Probably stay at the station until I know where I'm going."

"Bullshit." Bobby says. "You're staying with us. We've got nearly an entire floor to ourselves at the Mill's house. You can have Jodi's room; she went back to Sioux Falls yesterday and I never bothered to tell management someone checked out."

Jack tries to refuse again but Karen stops him.

"He's a stubborn old man." She whispers. "He's not gonna stop until he gets a yes once he's decided on something."

And it's true, Jack is ushered into their rental car almost the second they're off the train. His backpack is taken along with Karen's luggage when they're at the guest house.

"Something bothering you?" Karen asks as he just stares at the well decorated lobby.

"It's just, I'm starting to feel like I'm in a fairy tale, where I don't have much else besides the clothes off my back and then somehow I'm being showered with a whole new life, complete with a new wardrobe." Jack whispers, and she laughs loud enough to where people stop to stare at them.

Jack's ushered into a room half the size of his whole house but unsurprisingly, can't sleep, even with curtains blocking out the morning light. He paces back and forth until he starts worrying he's gonna leave a hole in the carpet, so he sits at the window, people watching.

He's relieved when someone knocks at the door around noon.

"Any word on where the circus is?" He asks before Bobby can even say anything.

"Not yet, son." He asks. "Sometimes we know where it is before we even show up, but not this time. I'd guess we'll hear something by the end of the day, and if we're really lucky, we'll leave first thing tomorrow. You have a suit?"

"Not on me." Jack says, remembering a suit packed away in his closet only reserved for special occasions. More than likely he's outgrown it with age, unable to remember the last time there was something he had to wear it for.

"Then we'll get you one." Bobby says, like it's as easy as ordering breakfast.

They meet Karen in the lobby and the two of them drag him all over town on a number of errands, including a tailor for his new suit.

"No, no no!" Karen objects while they're looking at samples. "They're all wrong for his skin tone. He needs a tan. A nice, dark tan."

After so much measuring and adjusting, Jack ends up with a suit nicer than any one he's owned growing up, nicer than even his dad's, in a dark tan. Despite his protests, Bobby also buys him new shoes and a tie.

His reflection in the mirror is completely different from the one he's used to seeing to where Jacks still not sure it's really him.

They go back to the Mill house with so many different packages in their arms, stopping by their own rooms for barely enough time for Karen shows up again to take them out for dinner.

To Jack's amazement, there's about a dozen _Männer aus Briefen_ waiting in the restaurant they go to, some who will follow the circus and others that are staying put. Jos anxiety at how fancy this place is lessens by the easygoing, vibrant manner of the group. True to character, they're almost they're dressed in black white or gray with touches of blue on blazers or other clothing.

When Karen realizes Jack doesn't have any blue, she easily removes a blue bellflower from a nearby bouquet to pin to his suit.

The stories are endless related over the meal, mentions of tents Jack has never seen and countries he's never heard of, let alone visited. Jack mostly listens, still amazed by how he managed to find a group of people who sees the circus like he does.

"Do you... wonder if there's something wrong with the circus?" Jack asks softly, when the table falls into different conversations. "Recently?"

Bobby and Karen look at each other to decide who's going to answer, but it's Rufus who speaks up.

"It really hasn't been the same since Donatello died." He says. Bobby frowns while Karen nods in agreement.

"Who's Donatello?" Jack asks. The three of them look surprised by his genuine naivety.

"Donatello Redfield was the first _Männer aus Briefen_." Rufus says. "He was a clockmaker. That clock inside the gates is his."

"Someone who didn't work for the circus made that? Really?" Jack asks. It's not something he'd ever thought to ask Ali and Max. He just thought it was another thing that was made at what circus' conception Rufus nods.

"He was a writer too." Bobby says. "That's how we met the guy, years ago. Read one of his articles and sent him a letter and we started up a correspondence. That was before we even called ourselves _Männer aus Briefen_."

"He made a clock based off the Carousel for me." Karen says, looking almost sad. "With the creatures that went through clouds and gears. It's wonderful. Wish it was portable. But it's nice to have the circus with me when I'm not following it."

"Weren't he and the illusionist in love?" Rufus asks, smiling into his Johnny Walker Blue.

"Poppycock and bullshit." Bobby scoffs.

"He always sounded affectionate towards him in his articles." Karen says, like she's not completely ruling it out.

"Well how could he not?" Bobby asks. Karen looks at him curiously. "He's so talented." He mumbles, and Jack sees Karen holding back a laugh. "But come on! The man was twice his age!"

"And you said the circus wasn't the same without Donatello?" Jack asks, wondering if it had something to do with what Ali told him.

"It's different without him, for us, naturally." Karen says. She pauses in thought before before continuing. "The circus itself is a lot different too. Nothing specific, just something…"

"Something tilted." Bobby throws in. "Like a clock that has a part not working correctly."

"When did he pass away?" Jack asks. He can't force himself to ask how it happened.

"Actually, it was about a year ago tonight." Bobby says.

"Oh, I'd forgotten about that." Karen says.

"To Donatello." Bobby proposes loud enough for the rest of the table to hear, raising his glass. Everyone else follows suit, so Jack does the same.

More stories about Donatello keep going all through dessert, only interrupted by a conversation about how pie always trumps cake, and how they're not even close to the same. Bobby excuses himself after finishing his whiskey, refusing to argue about pie.

When he comes back, he has the news they've been waiting for.

"We're off to Lawrence, my friends."


	61. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment later, Sam's sitting in a chair across the circle from Dean, still dressed in his performance suit.

_Montreal, August 2019_

After the illusionist takes his bow and disappears from his audience's view, they applaud, claps filling the empty air. They stand up from their seats and some of them talk amongst themselves, gushing over one trick or another as they make their way out the door that's reappeared on the side of the tent.

One man, in the inner circle of chairs, stays where he is as they all leave. His eyes, almost hidden on the shadow of his sunglasses, are fixated on the space smack in the middle where Sam was standing just a moment ago.

The rest of the audience leaves.

The man still doesn't move.

After a few minutes, the door disappears again.

The man's gaze doesn't falter. He doesn't even look up as the door disappears.

A moment later, Sam's sitting in a chair across the circle from Dean, still dressed in his performance suit, an Impala driving into the sunset to match the clock's heart.

"You sat in the front this time." Sam says.

"Wanted to get closer." Dean says.

"You've traveled quite a way from Ohio to be here."

"Needed a vacation."

Sam looks down at his hands.

"You really didn't think I'd come, did you?" Dean asks.

"No, I didn't."

"Not easy to hide when you're in a circus, in case you forgot."

"I'm not hiding." Sam says.

"Yeah, you are." Dean says. "I tried to talk to you at Donatello's funeral, but you ran off before I could track you down, then you moved the whole circus across the the globe. You're obviously trying to get away from me."

"It wasn't entirely about you." Sam says. "Just needed some space to think. Do you like the Pool of Tears?" Sam adds, despite himself.

"I do. What made you make it?"

"You're not as tough as you want people to think, Dean. If you couldn't open up to someone else besides me, I wanted you to have a spot where you could do that and still save face. And are you really going to pretend you didn't put the word 'bitch' on the bottom?"

"Like you didn't retaliate and put jerk underneath it?"

But the time for joking is over, so Sam just closes his eyes and doesn't respond.

"You stole my journal." Dean says after a moment.

"I'm sorry." Sam says.

"Long at it's in a safe place it doesn't matter who has it. You could've just asked me. You could've said goodbye too."

Sam nods.

"I know." he says.

Neither of them say a word for some time.

"I'm trying to make it so the circus doesn't need us. Need me. I needed to know how your system works so I could figure it out. I can't let something that means so much to so many people just disappear. Something that's mysterious and wonderful and comforting in a way they can't find just anywhere. If you had that in your life, wouldn't you want to do everything you could to keep it with you?"

"Sammy, that's how it is when I have you around." Dean says. "I can help."

"I don't need you."

"You can't do it all on your own."

"I have Castiel and Jo." Sam says. "They've agreed to take over the upkeep for the basic stuff. With enough training, Max and Ali will get really good at the magic aspect Cass and Jo can't do. Like I said...I don't need you anymore."

He can't look Dean in the eye as he says that.

"You don't trust me." Dean says.

"Pamela did." Sam says, looking down at the ground. "So did Gabriel. How am I supposed to believe I'm the only person you haven't lied to, when I'm the biggest obstacle in your way to winning?"

"Not once did I ever tell Pamela I loved her." Dean says. "I was young and desperate for companionship in any form I could get it. That was my fault for letting her think it was any more than that, but you have to believe me that's it's different with you on every level. This isn't me distracting you so I can win; do you honestly believe I'd do something like that?"

Sam stands up from his chair.

"Good night, Mr. Winchester." He says.

"Sammy, stop." Dean says, standing up but not moving any closer.

"You're hurting me. You once said I reminded you of your grandfather. That you never wanted anyone to go through what you did at his hands, and yet that's exactly what you're doing. You keep walking away from me. You leave so I keep wanting to go after you again and again when all I've ever wanted is for you to feel safe enough to stop running, and it hurts like hell."

"It's going to hurt like hell anyway." Sam says quietly.

"What?" Dean asks.

"The winner's determined by who can survive longer." Sam says. "The victor lives, and the loser dies. That's how the game's played."

"That--." Dean stops shaking his head and refusing to accept it. "There's no way that's how it's supposed to end."

"It is." Sam says. "It's a test of survival, not magic. That's why I'm doing all of this. So it can be independent before…"

He can't bring himself to say the words, still mostly unable to look at him.

"You're going to kill yourself." Dean says. "You're gonna forfeit the game."

"Not exactly." Sam says. "Guess I really am self destructive."

"No." Dean says. "I know you don't mean that."

"It's the only way to make the game stop."

"Then we keep playing."

"I can't." Sam says. "I can't keep holding everything together. Every night this keeps up it gets harder. And I...I want you to win."

"I never wanted to win!" Dean shouts. "I want you! Honestly, Sammy, how can you not see that after all this time?"

Sam says nothing, but tears start falling down his face. He doesn't wipe them away.

"How could you possibly come to any other conclusion other than I love you?" Dena demands. "Sam, don't you dare think that anything, past or present, is worth more than you, the game included! It has never been like that, ever!

I need you to see that. I'm begging you."

Sam only looks at Dean through his tear soaked eyes, the first time he's been able to look right at Dean.

"I should've told you the truth years ago." Dean says.

They stand on opposite sides of a room painted like a nursery. A crib is in the middle of the room.

"I knew you were my opponent long before the circus ever became an idea." Dean says. "But I also knew something I've never told you, even after all this time."

The room changes, making it so a blond woman and a little blond kid come in to kiss the baby goodnight. They can hear the words, "Night, Sam."

"........You're my brother." Sam says, voice barely a whisper echoing throughout the room.

Dean moves to close the distance between them, trying to kiss away Sam's tears before kissing him softly.

As they kiss, the bonfire glows brighter.

The acrobats are even more on point as they spin. The entire circus is sparkling, wowing every single patron.

But then, the perfect private moment is over as Sam fights to pull himself away.

"I'm sorry." Sam says.

"Sammy…" Dean says, unwilling to let him go, fingers gripping his animated suit tightly.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"It's doomed." Sam says. "It was doomed when I auditioned for the circus; too many people were already in it. Anything either of us can do affects everyone else, affects every single person who comes to see this circus. Thousands if not millions of people. Just bacteria in a petri dish that's been incubating since I was six and now it's a miracle I can function out of fear of hurting someone else."

Sam looks up at Dean, lifting a hand to stroke his face.

"Can you do something for me?" Sam asks.

"Name it." Dean says.

"When you leave, don't come back." Sam says, voice breaking.

He disappears before Dean can object, as easily and elegantly as the end of his performance, the suit disappearing underneath his hands. Only the scent of his cologne is left behind in the space Sam used to be just a moment ago.

Dean stands by himself in the empty tent with only two rows of chairs arranged in the circle and an open door, ready for him to walk through it.

But before he leaves, he pulls out one playing card out of his pocket and puts it on the chair Sam occupied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone looking to point out a technicality with the pool of tears:
> 
> The rules state they can't do anything to each other's work, this is true. But I believe the magical aspect is in the stones thrown into the pool, and everything else is just decor to add to the ambience, with no magical aspect to it. So technically, there's no rule being broken if one or both of them adds a word on the pool's floor.
> 
> Also: if someone can please find me a gif of Dean saying, I need you see that. I'm begging you. To Sam, I'd really appreciate it.


	62. Scrutiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Campbell (Winchester, all this time, and he's really a Winchester.) is at a desk surrounded by stacks of books. He ran out of space for his personal library a while ago, but instead of just making the room bigger, he decided to just let the books become the room.
> 
> There's no frost on the windows in Dean's apartment, so he makes a call to John Winchester. He doesn't bother lying this time, saying he needs to know the truth about the game.

_September 2019_

Sam Campbell (Winchester, all this time, and he's really a Winchester.) is at a desk surrounded by stacks of books. He ran out of space for his personal library a while ago, but instead of just making the room bigger, he decided to just let the books become the room.

Several piles have been converted into tables, others he's having hang from the ceiling, along with wrought iron cages holding several live black ravens.

Another cage, more round than the other and sitting on a table instead of hanging, houses a very detailed clock. It tells the time as well as tracks lightning storms as it keeps ticking through the day.

A large white dove sleeps outside a cage alongside the complete works of Neal Shusterman.

Mismatched candles in gold and silver candelabras, burning in all different sets of numbers, surround both the desk in the middle of the room. On the actual desk is a slowly cooling coffee mug, a blazer that's partially falling apart, a portrait of the late Donatello Redfield, a lone playing card isolated from its deck, and a journal filled with signs and symbols and signatures grabbed from other pieces of paper.

Sam sits with a notebook and fountain pen, trying to decode the system the journal is written in.

He tries to think of what Dean (his brother, his BROTHER) was thinking when he first wrote it, imagining him writing each page, rendering the delicate ink plants of the garden that grows throughout the book.

He looks over every signature again and again, looking at how pasted in every piece of hair is, looking over every single symbol.

He's spent so much time repeating this he could nearly do it from memory alone, but he's still not completely clear how it works.

The dove stirs and coos softly at something in the shadows.

"You're upsetting Constancia." Sam says without looking up.

The candlelight barely lights up his grandfather's form as he hovers nearby. Highlighting the cracks in his leather jacket, the collar of the shirt. Lighting up his dark eyes.

"You should get her a pigeon." He says, staring at the disturbed dove. "A Constancio to complete the set."

"I prefer hardship to a life of luxury, Samuel.." Sam says.

"Humph." Is all Samuel says.  
Sam ignores him as Samuel leans over his shoulder, watching him flip through the heavily inked pages.

"This is a hot mess." He says.

"A language you never learned in your lifetime can't be rightfully called a hot mess." Sam says, writing down another line of symbols in his notebook.

"It's messy work, all these runes and symbols." Samuel says, floating to the other said of the desk to get a better look. "Pretty close to John's style, complex with no explanation."

"And still, enough studying and anyone else could do the same. Completely different from what you've led me to believe my whole life."

"I said you were special. That wasn't a lie. You're above this--" he waves a hand over the books, "All this nonsense about tools and blueprints. You could be doing so much more with your talents. So much more you could try out."

"'Getting to know someone in blind darkness changes your impression of them.'" Sam quotes to him.

"Please, spare me the Shusterman."

"I'm haunted by the ghost of my grandfather, which should entitle me to quote Unwind as much as I damn well please. You used to take a liking to Shusterman, Samuel."

"You're smarter than this finger painting. You're supposed to be the prize horse."

"Well, looks like I can't help but let people down, huh? Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Not a lot of people who want to talk to me like this. John's boring, naturally. Gabriel was definitely interesting, but Dean's messed with his head so much I might as well be talking to a mirror. But maybe a change of scenery will do me some good."

"You talk to Gabriel?" Sam asks.

"Now and then." Samuel says, looking at the clock in the cage.

"You told Gabriel John would be at the circus. You're the one that sent him there."

"All I did was put an idea in a drunken mind. Easy to do when he was as smashed as he was. Lot easier to accept the presence of the dead.

"You knew he couldn't do anything to John." Sam says. The explanation doesn't make any sense, not that Samuel's reasons ever do.

"Thought he deserved a little payback. Surprised Dean didn't do it himself. In fact, that's how it was so easy to convince Gabriel to do it. Gabriel already had the idea in his head, all the resentment had built up in his subconscious from prolonged exposure. All I did was show him the way."

"What happened to your rules about interfering?" Sam asks, setting down his fountain pen.

"I can't interfere with you or Dean." Samuel clarifies. "I can interfere with anyone else as much as I damn well please."

"Your interference is the reason Donatello is dead!"

"He was just a clockmaker." Samuel says flippantly. "You could easily replace him with another one for all your clock-related needs."

Sam's hands are shaking as he picks up a book from the Shusterman pile and chucks it at Samuel. The Dark Side of Nowhere goes right through his chest, hitting the tent's wall and landing on the ground. The dove coos, feathers ruffled.

"Go away, Samuel." Sam says through his teeth, trying to maintain control.

"You can't keep ignoring me." Samuel says.  
Sam keeps his attention to the candles on the desk, focusing on one flame.

"You really think you're making lasting relationships with all of these people?" Samuel continues. "You think you mean anything to anyone here? They'll all be dead eventually. Your emotions are interfering with your abilities."

"You're a fucking coward." Sam says. "Both of you are fucking cowards. You bet your own kin because you don't have the guts to play against each other. You're so scared of failing, and having nobody to blame but yourself."

"That's a lie." Samuel protests.

"I hate you!" Sam says, still looking at the one flame.

Samuel Campbell's shadow shudders and disappears.

 

There's no frost on the windows in Dean's apartment, so he makes a call to John Winchester. He doesn't bother lying this time, saying he needs to know the truth about the game.

He sits at the door, twisting the ring on his fingers in anxious circles until he gets the knock on the door the next morning int be early hours.

John Winchester doesn't chew him out this time, perhaps understanding this really is important. He comes just inside with his hands at his sides, waiting for Dean to talk.

"Sam thinks the game ends when one of us dies."

"He's right."

You always think you'll feel better knowing the truth, but Dean feels pretty damn far from fine. Whatever hope he'd been holding on to that Sam had been lied to disintegrates with those two words.

"Winning would hurt worse than losing." He says.

"I did warn you how developing feelings for Sam had to be used to your advantage." John replies.

"Why would you make me do this?" Dean asks. "Why would you have me give up hunting for something so awful?"

The pause before the response is almost suffocating.

"I thought once you got to be closer to Sam, and really got to know the little brother you hadn't seen since you were four, it would all come rushing back to you. Be the thing to really make you understand."

Then John leaves, and Dean locks the door behind him.

John almost knocks again, even lifting his hand to do so, but thinks better of it and just walks away.


	63. Azazel's Special Children

You follow the sound of music into a hidden corner, the familiar song, "Master of Puppets" beckoning you closer.

On the ground is a basket with a lid. Somewhere unseen, the song continues on a sitar. Behind the basket, an unusually dressed man stands at the ready.

A small audience gathers. Another person removes the lid without touching it, staring at it intently as the lid lifts and is set aside next to it.

Suddenly another instrument joins in, and after a moment, you discover it's the Macarena song, of all things.

A Golden White and a red sided garter snake wind around each other, as the first man commands them in a foreign tongue, somehow perfectly in tune with the music.

For a moment it's like the man and the snakes have become one, then they separate again, slithering down the sides of the basket, onto the ground and very close to your feet.

The man speaks again, and then the snakes move back and forth together in motions that are similar to a very elegant dance. Formally graceful.

The music increases in tempo, now suddenly the man's words become more harsh, and now the snakes are at war with each other. Now they're circling each other, and you wait to see who makes the first move.

One of them lets out a soft hiss, and the other responds. They keep circling as the music rises up into the sky.

You don't know who attacks first, because suddenly, a woman appears out of nowhere and touches the snakes, and they disintegrate into ash right as they go to attack.

You don't know what to make of it, but then, she reaches one finger into the ashes, and pulls a new snake out of both. You're distracted by how instead of white and red backed, they're now both black with silver stripes.


	64. Foresight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags hang by compartment doors, marked with handwritten names. They stop at the one marked "Sam", and Max lifts a hand to knock on the glass.
> 
> "Come in." A voice calls from inside, and Ali slides the door open.

_En route from Boston to Lawrence, October 31, 2019_

Many of the train's passengers are settled in their train cars and compartments reading sleeping or otherwise occupied. Corridors that were busy with people when the train left are now almost empty as Max and Ali make their way through the cars, silent as mice.

Tags hang by compartment doors, marked with handwritten names. They stop at the one marked "Sam", and Max lifts a hand to knock on the glass.

"Come in." A voice calls from inside, and Ali slides the door open.

"Hope we're not interrupting." She asks.

"Not at all." Sam says. "Come on in." He closes they book filled with symbols he's been reading and sets it on the table. The whole compartment looks like a library exploded in here, piles of books and paper among the benches and polished tables. The lights bounces around the room in sync with the train moving, bouncing off the chandeliers.

Max slides the door shut behind them and slides the latch.

"Want some hot chocolate?" Sam asks.

"No thanks." Ali says. She gives her brother a nervous look, who nods.

Sam watches them, Ali biting her lip and refusing to look Sam in the eye, while Max leans against the door.

"Talk." Sam says.

"We…" Ali starts. "We have a serious problem."

"What do you mean?" Sam asks, moving books around so they can sit on the benches, but the twins choose to stay where they are.

"I'm pretty sure something was supposed to happen, and it didn't." Ali says.

"Which would be…?" Sam asks.

"Our friend Jack was supposed to join us."

"Oh yeah. Max said something about that." Sam says. "I'm guessing he didn't?"

"No." Ali says. "We waited, but he never showed up. Don't know if it's because he decided not to or because we left earlier than planned."

"I see." Sam says. "That's a really big decision, at least to me, just deciding to uproot your entire life to join the circus. Maybe you didn't give him enough time to have a definitive answer."

"But he was supposed to be here!" Ali says. "I know he was!"

"Did you see something?" Sam asks.

"Kinda."

"How do you kinda see something?"

"It's not as easy to see as it was before." Ali says. "My foresight isn't as clear as it use to be. It's all a bunch of shattered pieces that don't make any sense. Nothing has made sense for a whole year, and you know that."

"I think you're exaggerating, but I get how you'd think that." Sam says.

"I'm not exaggerating." Ali says, raising her voice.

The chandeliers start shaking and Sam closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and waiting for them to calm down to their gentle swaying before speaking again.

"Ali, nobody else here is more upset than I am over what happened a year ago. And I told you it wasn't your fault, and nobody could've stopped it. Not you, not me, not anyone else. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Ali says. "But why be born with foresight if I can't stop the bad things from happening."

"You can't stop bad things from happening." Sam says. "All you can do is be prepared for when they do happen."

"You could stop them if you wanted to." Ali mumbles, looking around at the large collection of books. Sam puts a finger under Ali's chin and turns her head to look her straight in the eye.

"Only a small handful on this train understand how big of a role I play in keeping this circus functional. He says. "And despite you and Max being two of them and being very bright, you don't know the first thing about what's really going on here and you really don't want to. Now tell me what you _kinda_ saw."

Ali closes her eyes in concentration. "I don't know!" She says. "It was bright, like everything was burning, and Jack was there."

"You need to do way better than that." Sam says.

"I can't." Ali says. "I haven't been able to see anything super clear since before---."

"And I'm pretty sure that's because you don't _want_ to see anything clear after that, and I don't blame you at all. But if you really want me to help stop whatever it is from happening, I need more information."

He pulls a silver chain from his pocket checking the time on the pocket watch hanging off of it before he holds it in front of Ali's eyes.

"Please, Ali." Sam says. "You don't need the constellations for this. Focus. Even if you don't want to."

Ali frowns, then turns her attention to the silver pocket watch as it sways in the light.

She narrows her eyes, focusing on the reflections in the watch's curves, then her eyes soften, looking at something beyond the watch or the train.

She sways as her eyes flutter closed, and she falls backwards. Max moves to catch her before hitting the floor.

Sam helps him move Ali to one of the benches by the table, while on a nearby shelf a cup of hot chocolate pours itself, steaming immediately in a tacky coffee mug.

Ali blinks, looking up at the chandeliers like she's just seeing them now for the first time, before she turns back to Sam to accept the hot chocolate.

"That hurt like hell." Ali says.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Sam says. "I think you're actually getting stronger, which is an even bigger problem for you pushing yourself away from it like this."

Ali nods, massaging her temples.

"Tell me everything." Dean says. "Everything. I don't care if it sounds like nonsense to you. Try and describe it."

Ali stares into her hot chocolate before starting.

"A fire." She says. "Coming from the bonfire but...it gets a lot bigger and nothing to stop it. Like the whole courtyard's on fire, a loud bang and the heat and…" Ali pauses, closing her attempts to focus on the pictures in her head. She opens her eyes and looks back at Sam. "You're there. You're with someone else and I think it might be raining, and suddenly you're not there anymore but you still are, I can't explain it. And then Jack's there, not during the fire but after it's all over. I think."

"The other person. What did they look like?" Sam asks.

"A man. Not as tall as you, with bowlegs. In a suit, styled like in the 1940s, I think. Hard to say."

Sam rests his head in his hands for a moment before speaking again.

"If it's who I think, I know for a fact he's currently in Springfield, so maybe it's not as pressing a matter as you think."

"Yes it is. I know it is!" Ali protests.

"You've never been good with timing. You yourself said this friend is also there for this info, and the first thing you complained about was him not being here. It probably won't happen for weeks, months, or years to come, Ali."

"But we can't just do nothing!" Ali says, slamming his mug down on the table. The liquid stops before it splashes onto an open book like it's surrounded by a barrier. "We have to be prepared, like you said."

"I'll do whatever I can to stop the circus burning down. I'll make it all fireproof if I have to. Will that be satisfactory for the time being?"

After a moment, Ali nods.

"Good." Sam says. "We're getting off in a few hours or so, so we can talk more then."

"Wait." Max says. He'd been sitting behind one of the benches, staying out of the conversation. Now he turns to Sam. "I have a question before you kick us out."

"Shoot." Sam asks.

"You said we don't know the first thing about what's really going on here." Max says.

"I admit I could've worded it better than that."

"It's a game, isn't it?" Max asks.

Sam looks at him, and a smile slowly creeps onto his face.

"Almost sixteen years, and just now you're figuring that out?" He says. "I had higher hopes for you, Max."

"I suspected for a while." Max says. "If you don't want me to see something, it's not that easy, but lately that hasn't been that big of an issue. You've been letting your guard down."

"A game?" Ali asks, going back and forth between her brother and Sam."

"A board game." Max says. "The circus is the board."

"Not entirely." Sam says. "It's not that black and white as a simple board game."

"So we're all players?" Ali asks.

"Not us." Max says. "Her and somebody else. The rest of us are what, just obstacles in your way?"

"It's not like that at all." Sam says.

"Then what is it?" Max adds.

In response, Sam just looks at him, looking straight into his eyes without turning away.

Max keeps the gaze for a while longer while Ali watches them, curious. Eventually Max blinks first, the shock unmistakable on his face

Then he looks down at the floor, ashamed.

Sam sighs, and when he speaks again, he directs it to both of them.

"If I purposely left you out of the loop, it's because all of what I know is something you really don't want to. I'm asking you now to trust me when I say I'm trying to make everything better, for all of us. It's a very sensitive balance and a bunch of factors involved. Right now all we can do is take whatever comes as is, and not focus on the things we can't change, or things you think are coming. Agreed?"

Max nods and Ali hesitates before doing the same.

"Thank you." Sam says. "Now both of you do yourselves a favor and get some rest."

Ali gives him tight hug before slipping back out and into the hall.

Max hangs back for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Sam." He says.

"You have nothing to apologise for." Sam assures him.

"I'm still sorry."

Max gives Sam a smaller hug before leaving, not wanting Sam to answer.

"What was all that about?" Ali asks when Max joins her in the hall.

"He let me read him." Max says. "All of it, without hiding anything. He's never done that before." He won't elaborate as they keep walking back down the long train's length.

"So what do you think we should do?" Ali asks once they make it back to their car, a black cat crawling into her lap.

"We need to wait." Max says. "That's all we can do."

  


Alone in his book filled train car, Sam starts ripping his handkerchief into pieces. One by one he drops them into a coffee mug and sets them on fire. He keeps doing this over and over until the fabric is burning without being damaged, bright and white in the fire.


	65. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jodi turns out to be a very nice mother like woman, and his first impression is that she's like a pistol; ready to fire back at a moment's notice but still willing to yield at the absence of a threat. She practically grabs Bobby in a bear hug, lifting him slightly off the ground as a greeting and gives such a firm handshake to Jack while he's being introduced, his fingers are almost numb afterwards.

_En route from Boston to Lawrence, November 3, 2019_

It's a chilly morning, and Jack's faded jacket doesn't really go to well wtih how new tan suit, and he's not sure the two shades go together,  but both the streets and the station are too busy for them to think twice about what he could be wearing.

There's other _Männer aus Briefen_ heading to Lawrence as well, but the end result is them getting on the later train, so there's a bunch of goodbyes and the confusion of sorting everyone's bags before they get on board.

It's a slow journey, so Jack sits looking out the window at the changing view, biting his nails.

Eventually, Bobby comes to sit by him, holding a worn leather bound binder in his hands.

"Thought you could use some reading material to help the time go faster." He says, passing the binder to Jack.

Jack opens the binder and flips through it, which he is surprised to discover is actually a well organized scrapbook. Most of the black pages have newspaper articles glued to them, but there's also handwritten letters in there, dating anywhere from just a few years ago, to almost ten years to the date.

"It's not all in English." Bobby explains. "But most of the articles are, at least."

"Thanks." Jack says.

Bobby nods and returns to his seat across the car.

As the train keeps moving, Jack forgets all about the view. He reads and rereads the words of the late Donatello Redfield, both familiar and mesmerizing.

"I've never seen you so interested in a new _Männer aus Briefen_ like this before." He overhears Karen note to her husband. "And you never share your books with anyone."

"He's so much like Donatello." Is all Bobby has to say on the matter.

They're almost in Lawrence when Rufus chooses to sit right across from him. Jack makes a note of his place in the article comparing the interplay of light and shadows in a tent to a Chinese puppet theater before setting the book down.

"I know our lives are weird, hunting down a circus wherever it goes." Rufus says, looking out the window. "But I can say this: I've never met a new _Männer aus Briefen_ so young who lives the circus as much as those of us who've been following it for years. So we all want you to have this."

He hands Jack a blue blazer, the one Karen had been fixing up on and off. It's a little bigger than Jack expected from watching her sew, with amazing stitching patterns on the worn parts.

"I can't take this." He says, simultaneously honored they think he deserves something like this and the other wishing people would stop buying or giving him things.

"Bull." Rufus says. "Karen does things like this all the time. She's got plenty of them she still needs to fix up. She'd already started it with no specific _Männer aus Briefen_ in mind to have it, so it's only right you have it."

"... Thank you." Jack says, putting it on over his faded jacket, despite how warm it already is on the train.

"You're welcome." Rufus says. "We'll be there soon enough, then all we have to do then is wait for the sun to go down.

He leaves Jack by his seat at the window. Jack goes back to staring out at the gray sky with simultaneous comfort and excitement and anxiety that he can't shake.

When they're finally in Lawrence, Jack's immediately put off by how different everything looks. It's nowhere near as big as Boston, which had been at least familiar. Now without the comfort of the train, it suddenly hits him how far away from home he is.

Bobby and Karen look equally disoriented, but Rufus looks to look right at home. He leads them through the intersections and pushes them into taxis until Jack starts to feel more like a sheep. But it's not long before they're at their destination, right outside the city where they're supposed to meet up with another _Männer aus Briefen_ named Jodi, the same woman whose room Jack had taken back in Boston, who's generous enough to invite them to stay at her guest house until they can find other room and board.

Jodi turns out to be a very nice mother like woman, and his first impression is that she's like a pistol; ready to fire back at a moment's notice but still willing to yield at the absence of a threat. She practically grabs Bobby in a bear hug, lifting him slightly off the ground as a greeting and gives such a firm handshake to Jack while he's being introduced, his fingers are almost numb afterwards.

"So we got good news, and bad news." Jodi says as she helps the bring their bags in. "Which one you wanna hear first?"

"Good news. Duh." Rufus answers before Jack can even decide which one he'd prefer. "Our asses are way too numb to be hit with bad news."

"The good news." Jodi says, "Is that I've confirmed my prediction on here exactly the circus is, and it's set up less than a mile away. If you lean forward, you can even see the top of the tents. She points to the left side of the porch from where he's standing on the stairs.

Immediately Jack rushes over to the end of the porch, with Karen right behind him.

Sure enough, the tops of the tents are visible through the trees a fair distance away, bright white against the gray sky and brown trees.

"Good." Rufus says, laughing at Karen and Jack as they lean over. "But then what's the bad news?"

"I actually don't even know if it is bad news." Jodi says, like she's not entirely sure it makes sense when to her. "It's more of a disappointment, actually. But it is about the circus."

Jack gets off the railing and turns his attention back to the conversation, all the excitement he'd felt a moment ago fading.

"A disappointment?" Bobby asks.

"Well, this isn't exactly ideal, as you no doubt can tell." Jodi says, gesturing to the heat sky. "It was a bad storm last night. The circus was closed, naturally, which was weird in itself, because in all my time, it's never been set up just to be closed opening night due to bad weather. But regardless, there was a weird, not sure what to call it, a loud noise that went off around midnight. A seriously loud bang that shook the whole house. Thought something had been struck by lightning. There was a lot of smoke coming from the circus, and a neighbor swears he saw lightning flash. I walked down there earlier this morning, and nothing looked wrong at all, but the sign still said Closed.

"Very odd." Karen says.

Without a word in response, Jack jumps over the railing and runs off like a bat out of hell as he dashes through the trees. He heads straight for the striped tents as fast as humanly possible, his blue blazer flapping around him.


	66. Skeletons in the Closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can I come in?" She asks, fidgeting with her tank top.
> 
> "No." Dean says, glancing up at his apartment window. A light suddenly comes on and shines through the glass. "Just tell me whatever the hell it is you came here to say and get the hell away from me."

_Springfield Ohio, November 2, 2019_

It's getting late, and the pavement is dark despite the streetlights lighting up the buildings. Pamela stands near she darkened stairs of the one she lived in for nearly a year, which almost feels an entire lifetime ago. She waits outside for Dean to come back, in a lavender tank top and a cowgirl hat on her head the only color in the night.

It's hours before Dean finally shows up. He tightens his grip on his duffle bag when he sees her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He demands. "You're supposed to be in Lawrence."

"I quit the circus." Pamela says. "I left. Sam said it was okay."

She takes an old scrap of paper from her pocket, adorned with her name, her full name including her middle one he convinced her to tell him and write down in one of his journals.

"Naturally." Dean says.

"Can I come in?" She asks, fidgeting with her tank top.

"No." Dean says, glancing up at his apartment window. A light suddenly comes on and shines through the glass. "Just tell me whatever the hell it is you came here to say and get the hell away from me."

Pamela frowns. She looks around the street, but it's empty, with only a slight breeze blowing, leaves rustling.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry." She says quietly. "For not telling you about my interference. I know what happened to Donatello was partially my fault."

"It's Sam that needs to hear your apology, not me."

"I did." Pamela says. "I knew he had strong feelings for someone, but I thought, stupidly, it was Donatello. It was only that night I realized it was you. But he did love him in his own way, and he lost him and it's my fault."

"It wasn't." Dean says. "A bunch of things were already set in motion that nobody could've stopped from happening."

"There's always a bunch of things already set in motion." Pamela says. "I didn't want to be this wrapped up in it. I just wanted to help. I wanted to be done with...all of _this_ and go back to how it was before all of it."

"We can't go back to before." Dean says. "There's so much that can't go back to how it was before."

"I know." Pamela says. "I can't hate him. I tried to, believe me I tried. I can't even resent him. He let me act like that for years, obviously suspicious of him, but was never not nice to me. And I loved the circus. It's like I finally had somewhere I felt safe, somewhere my talents were actually being used for something beneficial. After a while, it stopped feeling like I needed to protect you from him, instead I needed to protect the rest of the circus from both of you, and both of you from each other. I started when you saw me in Italy, when you were upset about the Chinese Wishing Trees, but I knew I had to keep going when I read Sam's cards.

"And when exactly was this?" Dean asks.

"That night in Florida when we were supposed to meet up, but you never showed." Pamela says. "You never let me read you, not even one card before a year ago. I didn't even notice that before. Now I wonder if I'd have kept up the ruse this long if I'd had the chance. It took me forever for me to realize what Sam's cards were telling me. It was all right there in front of me. I had all the time in the world, and I wasted it. It was always you two, even before he met you. I was just a distraction."

"You were anything but a distraction." Dean says.

"Did you ever love me? Even a little?" Pamela asks.

"No." Dean admits. "I thought maybe that would change, but…"

Pamela nods.

"I sincerely thought you did." She says. "I was completely convinced you did, even if you never said it. I couldn't tell what was real and what I wanted to be. I thought this was temporary, even when it just kept going and going. But it isn't. Never was. I was the temporary one. I actually thought if he was out of the picture, you'd come to your senses and come back to me."

"If Sam was out of the picture, I'd be a broken shell of the man I am now." Dean says. "You should know by now you deserve way better than that."

They stand silently on the sidewalk, the cold night air falling in between them.

"Goodnight, Miss Barnes." Dean says, starting up the stairs.

"Time is the one thing that's almost impossible to read." Pamela says, and Dean stops to look back at her. "Maybe it's because of how many things change because of it. I can't even count how many people I've read for people on countless subjects, and the hardest thing to figure out is the timing of the event. I'm well versed on it, and I was still shocked. How long was I gonna wait for something that was only one route I could've taken. I thought it was inevitable and I just had to wait for it to come around, and I was wrong."

"I wasn't expecting this to go on as long as---." Dean starts, but Pamela stops him.

"It's all in the timing." She says. "I had a late train that day. The day I saw you drop your pocket size notebook. If it had been on time, we'd never have crossed paths. Maybe we weren't ever supposed to. It was one path taken, one of millions, not inevitable, the way some things wind up being."

"Pamela I'm sorry." Dena says. "I'm sorry I involved you in everything. I'm sorry I didn't tell you how I felt for my brother. I don't know what else you want that I can do for you."

Pamela nods.

"I did a reading about a week ago." She says. "He was young, younger than I was when we met. Young like someone who hasn't lost all their childhood innocence. He was genuinely sweet. He even asked me my name. And it was all right there in his cards. All of it. It's like I was doing a reading for the circus itself, and the last time that happened, I did a reading for Sam."

"Why do I need to hear this?" Dean asks.

"Because I thought he could've given you the answer you've been looking for. I didn't know how to feel about it when I was giving it; still don't. It was in his cards along with everything else, plain as day. I really thought things were going to be different. I was wrong. Turns out I'm more wrong than I thought. Maybe I need a new job."

Dean says, face turning pale in the streetlights.

"What are you saying?" He asks.

"I'm saying you had an opportunity." Pamela says. "A chance to be together. A chance for everything to go right with the odds in your favor. I almost wanted that to happen, sincerely, despite everything. I still want you to be happy. And it was possible." She gives him a small, sad smile as she slides a hand into her pocket. "But the timing isn't right anymore."

She pulls her hand back out of her pocket and uncurls her fingers. In the palm of her hand is a small pile of yellow powder that almost looks like sulfur, if Dean didn't know better.

"What are you---." Dean asks as she lifts her hand to her mouth.

Without warning, she just says, "Bah-rah-gah-doh" and blows, and the powder that he can now identify as chamomile, goes right into Dean's eyes, stinging him and making him go temporarily unconscious.

Once Dean wakes up, his duffle bag is missing, as is Pamela.


	67. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the smell, he suddenly realizes. Not the smell of burnt caramel and sugar combined with the bonfire. This is heavier, like burning wet leaves mixed with blood.

_Lawrence, Kansas, November 3, 2019_

The surroundings are different to him, but the circus looks exactly like it did in Concord, Jack thinks when he reaches the fence, holding a stitch in his side and breathing heavily from running through an area covered in trees.

But there's more than that that's different here. It takes him a moment to catch his breath next to the gates, reading the sign that says:

 

_Closed due to Inclement Weather_

 

hanging over the usual sign showing the hours of operation.

It's the smell, he suddenly realizes. Not the smell of burnt caramel and sugar combined with the bonfire. This is heavier, like burning wet leaves mixed with blood.

It's nauseating.

It's dead silent inside the curled iron fence. The tents are absolutely still. The only thing still functioning like it should be is the clock, ticking by the hours.

Jack figures out pretty quick he can't slip through the bars of the fence so easily like he did at ten years old. The space is too tight, no matter how he adjusts his shoulders. He almost expects to see Ali there waiting for him, but there's no one there but him.

The fence is still too high to climb, and Jack is seriously tempted to just sit in front of the gates until the sun goes down when he sees a tree branch that comes very close to the fence, hanging right above the iron spikes on top.

He could easily jump from that branch. If he gets the angle just right, he'd land right in between two tents. If he's wrong, he'll get a broken leg for his efforts, but in the grand scheme of things, is only a minor problem he could deal with, and he'd still be inside.

The tree's really easy to climb, and the closet limb is wide enough to walk along until he's closer to the fence. But he's very off-balance, so when he tries for a graceful landing, he just winds up falling and just barely managing to stay on his feet. He lands with a heavy thud on the path, rolling into the side of a tent and taking a large bit of salt on the ground with him.

His legs hurt like hell, but they still seem to be functioning, though his shoulder feels like it's covered in bruises, his hands covered in scratches and dirt and salt. The salt comes off easier than expected, but it clings to his coat and new suit's pants legs. Now that he's up and ready, he's once again alone inside the circus.

"Truth or dare." He mutters to himself.

Dry leaves move around his feet, the wind blowing them in through the fence. Spots of brown, red and orange among the black white and silver.

Jack has no idea where to go. He goes along the pathway looking for Ali at every turn, but he just finds stripes and more emptiness. Finally, he goes towards the courtyard, where the bonfire is supposed to be.

As he turns into the open space that makes up the bonfire courtyard, he's more shocked to discover the bonfire isn't still burning than he is to find someone is in fact waiting for him.

But the person waiting next to the cauldron isn't Ali. The woman's too tall, hair not as dark. When she turns around, she has a cigarette in her fingers, and the smoke from the lit end curls around her like a snake.

It takes a moment before he recognizes the contortionist, only seeing her on circus platforms bending herself into impossible shapes.

"You're Jack, aren't you?" She says.

"Yes." Jack answers, wondering if it's just a few select people or the whole damn circus that knows who he is.

"You're late." The contortionist informs him.

"For what?" Jack asks, confused.

"I don't think he'll be able to hold on much longer."

"Who?" Jack asks, though the thought occurs to him she might actually talking about the circus.

"And, naturally," she continue. "If you'd arrived on time, everything might've been different. Timing is one thing that can't be controlled without repercussions."

"Where's Ali?" Jack asks.

"Miss Alicia is in bad shape at the moment."

"How could she possibly know I'm not here?" He asks.

"She probably does know you're here, but it doesn't change the fact that, as I said before, she's in bad shape for the time being."

"Who are you?" Jack asks. His shoulder pulses now, and he can't begin to understand when the world stopped making sense.

"You can call me Lisa." The contortionist says. She takes a long pull off her cigarette.

Past her, the humongous wrought iron cauldron is hollow and still. The ground it sits on, usually covered in spirals of salt and black sand, is now nothing but an empty void, like it's been swallowed whole.

"I thought it never went out." Jack says, walking closer.

"It's never done this before." Lisa says.

Getting to the edge of the still hot iron curling, Jack stands on his tiptoes to look inside. It's almost completely filled with rainwater, the dark surface rippling in the breeze. The ground underneath his feet is black and muddy, and when he takes a step back, he accidentally kicks a gold engraved ring.

"What happened?" Jack asks.

"Hard to explain." Lisa answers. "It's very long and complicated."

"And you're not gonna tell me anything, are you?"

She tilts her head slides, and Jack can see a small smile on her lips.

"No, I'm not." She says.

"Perfect." Jack mutters under his breath.

"I see you've gotten yourself a uniform." Lisa says, pointing to his blue blazer. Jack doesn't know what the appropriate response is, but she keeps going without one. "I guess it's the equivalent of the hydrogen bomb being dropped on Hiroshima."

"It exploded? How?"

"Remember how I said it was hard to explain? Nothing's changed."

"Then why didn't the tents catch fire?" Jack asks, looking at the nearly endless stripes. Some of the closer ones are covered in mud, but none of them show burn marks even surrounded by the burnt ground.

"That was Mr. Campbell's doing." Lisa says. "I'm guessing if he didn't take that precaution, you'd see a lot more damage."

"Who's Mr. Campbell?" Jack asks.

"So many questions." Lisa answers.

"Not enough answers." Jack retorts.

Then Lisa has a full blown smile now, in a manner that Jack would almost find friendly if it wasn't so disturbing.

"I'm just the go between." Lisa says. "I'm just here to get you to your meeting, where we can talk in more detail about these things, because if I were to guess, right now I'm the only one here who really knows what happened here, as well as why you're here. Someone else is better suited to answer your questions."

"And who's that?"

"You'll see." Lisa says. "Follow me."

She leads him forward, leading him around the bonfire to the other side of the courtyard. The walk down a short path connected to another one, mud sticking to Jack's formerly shiny shoes.

"And we're here." Lisa stops at a tent entrance, and Jack moves closer to read the sign, knowing which one it is the second he sees the words.

 

_Terrifying monsters and Supernatural Creatures_

_Mysteries in Paper and Mist._

 

"You're not coming with me?" Jack asks.

"Nope." Lisa says. "Just the go-between, remember? I'll be in the courtyard if you need me."

With that, she walks back the way they came, giving him only a slight nod, and as Jack watches her walk away, he notices there's no mud on her boots.

After she disappears after turning a corner, only then does Jack go into the tent.


	68. Seditious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you know the story of the priest and the pear tree?" She asks.
> 
> "The story about greed and immortality?" Dean asks. "There's several stories like it all around the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: very heavy angst ahead. Heavier than anything I've written for this fic so far.

_Lawrence, November 2, 2019_

Once Dean can focus again, he realizes being knocked unconscious slammed him into a ground, like someone pushed him, leaving home coughing from both the forceful shove and the cloud of chamomile.

A light rain falls as he pulls himself up, and as the air around him clears, he sees rows of flowers and stars, surrounded by silver engraved gears and red and blue poker chips.

It takes him a moment before he realizes he's next to the _Soprannaturale_ clock.

The clock's ticking ever closer to midnight, the 1967 Impala with their figures checking their phones among the stars and moving figurines.

The closed sign clatters against the fence. Although at the moment, the rain is nothing more than a heavy mist.

Dean rubs the chamomile and black powder from his face, which is now in its true form, and he's still too disoriented to change it back. He tries to get a better look at the dark ash or chamomile on his suit, but it's already disappearing.

The striped curtain past the ticket booth is hanging open, and through the haze, Dean can make out a figure in the shadows, lit up by the sudden spark of a silver cigarette lighter.

" _Hola._ " Lisa's greeting is cheerful as she approaches, tucking her lighter back into her pocket as she balances the cigarette in her long fingers. A rush of wind howls, rattling the gates.

"How...how did she do this?"

"You mean Pamela?" Lisa replies. "Those were genuine Men of Letters spells. I don't think she understood all of the variations of it, but she did what she was told pretty well anyway. You feel disoriented at all?"

"M'fine." Dean says, despite the ache in his back and the sting in his eyes. He looks at Lisa suspiciously. He's never really talked to the contortionist for long periods of time, and the fact that she's here, now, is almost more confusing than how he managed to get here when he was a few states over a moment ago.

"Here, at least get out of this weather." Lisa gestures for him to come inside the curtained tunnel with her free hand. "I like this face better than the other one." She says, studying his face through the mist and smoke. "It's more you." She drops the open curtain once he's inside, leaving them in darkness lit up with dimly lit fairy lights, the tip of her cigarette the only color among them.

"Where the hell is everybody?" Dean asks, shaking the rain out of his hair.

"Rainy day party." Lisa explains. "Usually in the acrobat tent, since it's the biggest. But you wouldn't know that, since you're not really a member of the circus, are you?"

He can't see her face well enough to read it, thought he can tell she has a bright smile on her face.

"No, I guess not." He says. He follows Lisa as she walks through the long and winding tunnel, getting deeper into the circus. "What the hell am I doing here?"

"We'll get there eventually." She says. "How much did Pamela choose to tell you?"

His last conversation with Pamela outside his apartment building is almost completely forgotten, despite it happening literally just minutes ago. He only remembers bits and pieces. Nothing relevant enough to know what it has to do with right now.

"It doesn't matter." Lisa says when Dean doesn't respond right away. "It's tough to keep all your thoughts together when someone's gone through what you have. Did she tell you what we have in common?"

Dean remembers Pamela saying something about Sam and someone else, but not specifics.

"Nope." He says.

"We both played in the same game against Samuel Campbell." Lisa says. The end of her cigarette glows brighter as she inhales in the almost pitch black darkness. "It's just a temporary cover, unfortunately." She adds as they reach another curtain. She pulls it back and the space is overwhelmed with the glowing light from the courtyard. She gestures for Dean to step back into the rain, taking another pull from her cigarette as he does as he's told and walks through the opening, trying to figure out what exactly she means by her last comment.

The lights that accompany the tents are dark now, but right in the middle is the bonfire, still burning brightly, white hot. The soft rain that falls around it almost glitters.

"It's beautiful." Lisa says, stepping into the courtyard with Dean. "I'll admit this much to you."

"You were a former student that went up against Samuel Campbell's last student?" Dean asks, not sure he really gets what that means.

Lisa nods.

"Got sick of writing things down, so I had them permanently scarred on my body instead. Don't particularly like having dirty hands." She says, gesturing to the ink on his hands. "I'm surprised Samuel went for such an open board for this game. He always kept to himself. I'm guessing he's not particularly happy with how things turned out."

As Dean listens, he notices the contortionist is bone dry. Every raindrop that falls on her evaporates, turning into steam the second it hits her.

"You won the last game." He says.

"I _survived_ the last game." Lisa immediately reminds him.

"When?" Dean asks as they walk closer to the bonfire.

"The game ended 20 years, 3 months, and twenty seven days ago. It was the last day of the Lights Over Morse Lake."

Lisa take a long pull off his cigarette before continuing.

"Our teachers never understood how it really works." She says. "To be so connected to someone in that way. Doesn't matter who Samuel picks as his opponent, they can't understand all the emotions behind it. They can't remember what it really means to be alive and breathing in today's world. They think pitting two people against each other is all it really is. But it always ends as do much more. The other person becomes everything you live for, how you choose to move forward in life. They're as necessary as one of your own lungs. And they act like a victor can find  a way to move on with their life after it's over. It's like separating the Banes twins and expecting them to function the same as before. They'd technically still be the same, but we'd know something is missing. You love him, don't you?"

"More than anything in any world." Dean says.

Lisa nods thoughtfully.

"My opponent's name has been long since forgotten." She admits sadly. "He smelled like oil grease and gravel. I loved him as much as a woman could love the father of her unexpected child, as well. On that last day of fireworks, he put himself right in front of where they were going off. Just went up in a wall of fire like a roman candle and stood right in the middle of it like a mannequin in a display window."

"I'm sorry." Dean says.

"Thanks." Lisa says, wearing a ghost of her normally bright smile. "I believe that's what Mr. Campbell is about to do for you. Forfeiting the game so you'll win."

"I know."

"I wouldn't wish that on anyone. To win. He would've adored this." She says as they finally get to the bonfire, watching the flames dancing in the rain that pours harder. "He had a thing for fire. I was more of a water girl. Before."

She holds out her hand and watches as the rain refuses to touch her.

"Do you know the story of the priest and the pear tree?" She asks.

"The story about greed and immortality?" Dean asks. "There's several stories like it all around the world."

"There are several variations." Lisa says, nodding. "Old stories are often told, then retold and altered. Whatever lesson the story used to tell, gets buried in bias and bells and whistles. The motives don't matter as much as the actual story."

The rain falls harder as she continues talking.

"Sometimes it's oranges, but I like pears better. They're more suitable in this case, don't you think?"

She balances the cigarette in her fingers gracefully.

"While we have plenty of trees for this to work," she says. "I thought this was better."

Dean turns his focus to the bonfire. It lights up the rain falling over it in a way that makes the water look like snow. Or maybe ash.

All of the versions of the of the fruit tree story Dean knows involve the pears being stolen. Or oranges or flowers.

Always in retaliation, the consequence of refusing to give just one away to a stranger.

He looks to Lisa.

"You get it." She says before Dean can say anything.

Dean nods.

"Had a feeling you would." She says. The light from the white hot flames lights up her smile in the pouring rain.

"Lisa, what the hell are you doing?" A voice calls from behind her.

When Lisa turns, Dean can see Sam standing at the edge of the courtyard. His full moon suit is soaking wet, the criss crossing moonbeams lighting up his soaking wet hair.

"Go back to the party, hun." Lisa says, throwing her cigarette on to the ground and stomping it out. "You don't want to see this."

"See what?" Sam says, staring at Dean.

When Lisa speaks again, it's to both of them.

"This whole circus has us all surrounded by love letters you've built for each other for years, enclosed inside these striped tents. It reminds me of how I felt with him. It's beautiful and horrible. I'm not ready to give it up, but you're letting it disappear."

"You said love was naive and temporary." Sam reminds her, confused.

"I lied." Lisa says. "I thought it would be easier if you couldn't fully believe him. In case you forgot, I gave you a year to figure out how to get the circus to function, and you failed. Now it's my turn."

"I'm try--." Sam starts, but Lisa doesn't let him finish.

"You keep overlooking the simplest thing." She says. "You carry the whole circus within you. He uses this bonfire as a tool. The circus loses more with you, but you're too selfish to admit it. You sincerely believed you couldn't live with the pain of surviving. Pain like that can't be lived with. You can only put up with it for so long. I really am sorry."

"Lise, please." Sam begs. "I need more time."

Lisa shakes her head.

"I already told you." She says. "Time is something nobody, not even me, can control."

Dean hasn't taken his eyes off of Sam since he first showed up in the courtyard, but now, somehow he manages.

"Do it." He says to Lisa, shouting over the growing echoes of rain hitting metal. "Do it, you bitch! I'd rather be vapourized out of existence than live without my little brother."

What would've been a simple protest from a normal human being, when Sam screams it, it's distorted into something much louder by the echo of the wind. The agony in his voice hits Dean like every single supernatural weapon in Gabriel's arsenal combined, but his focus doesn't waver from the contortionist.

"This'll stop the game, right?" He asks. "It'll end the game even if I become one with the fire, not dead or alive."

"You won't be able to play anymore." Lisa says. "That's all you need you worry about."

"Then do it." Dean says.

Lisa smiles at him. She puts her hands together, almost in prayer, or namaste.

Then she gives him the smallest of bows.

Neither of them are paying attention as Sam makes a run for it towards them through the rain.

Lisa shoves what's remaining of the smoke into the fire.

It's still in the air when Dean shouts for Sam to stop.

It barely touches the flames when Sam throws his whole body into Dean.

Dean knows he has no hope of pushing him away, so instead he pulls his little brother close, burying a hand in his hair.

Then comes the the pain. The sharp, being simultaneously flayed and burned alive kind of pain.

"Believe in us." Sam whispers in Dean's ear.

And upon hearing that, he stops pushing back, forgetting everything but Sammy.

In the moment before the fire explodes, before the white light is too bright to see what's happening, they evaporate into thin air. One moment they're there, Sam's suit flapping in the wind and rain, Dean's arms wrapped around his backside, and the next they disappear into the shadows.

Then they're both gone and the circus is on fire, the flames touching the tents, rising up into the rain.

Alone in the courtyard, Lisa sighs. The flames pass by her without touching, swirling in a vortex. Lighting her up with a brightness that shouldn't be possible.

Then, as quickly as they were lit, the flames are out in a puff.

The bonfire's curled iron cages is now empty, not even one ember is left. The rain hits in a hollow echo against the metal, drops turning into steam there the iron is still hot.

Lisa pulls out another cigarette and flicks open her lighter with a lazy gesture.

The small flame lights easily, rain or no rain.

She watches the cauldron fill with rain while she waits.


	69. One More Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who cares if one more light goes out?  
> In a sky of a million stars  
> It flickers, flickers  
> Who cares when someone's time runs out?  
> If a moment is all we are  
> Or quicker, quicker  
> Who cares if one more light goes out?  
> Well I do

If Sam could move his mouth, he'd scream.

But he already has too much to control between the heat, the rain and being wrapped up in Dean's arms.

He focuses on only Dean, pulling everything he is within himself as he breaks himself apart. Holding onto the memory of every single time Dean's ever touched him, every moment they've had together. Carrying Dean with him.

But then, there's absolutely nothing. Rain, gone. Fire, out. It's nothing but a calming numbness.

Somewhere in this numbness, a clock strikes midnight.

 _Stop,_ he thinks.

The clock keeps chiming, but the stillness falls.

Breaking is easy, Sam suddenly understands.

Putting yourself back together is the real challenge.

It's like healing his cut open fingertips as a kid, magnified.

It's a balance, finding the edges to heal again.

It would be easy to let himself go.

The simple thing to do would be to let go.

Less painful that way.

He fights against it, against all the pain and chaos.

Fighting with control of himself as well as his surroundings.

He picks a location and puts all his focus on it, the most familiar place he knows.

And very agonizingly slowly, he pulls himself together safely.

Until he's in his own tent, smack in the middle of the empty chairs.

He feels so much lighter. Diluted. Maybe nauseous.

But he's far from an echo of who he used to be. He's whole again, still breathing. His heart still beats. Even his suit still feels like it did before, wrapped around him and bone dry.

He spins around and it flaps around him.

Then he notices everything in his tent has become see-through. The chairs, the lights, even the walls look like you could blow them over.

And he's alone.

 

For Dean, the moment of impact is way longer than it was for Sam.

The combination of heat and light stretch out in front of him as he clings to Sam past the pain.

And then he's gone.

There's nothing left. No fire. No rain. No ground underneath his feet. Not even the scar on his hand.

His vision starts endlessly shifting from dark to light, the shadows replaced with a blinding light only for the shadows to consume it once more. Never settling on one.

 

The circus shifts around Sam, ever shifting like one of Dean's illusions.

He thinks of where he wants to go, and he's there. He doesn't know if he's moving his body or just changing the circus around him to suit his needs.

Immersive Reality sits dark and unused, nothing but empty digital screens in every direction.

Only a small amount of Bloody Mary's Mirrors show his reflection, and some only show a hint of the big full moon on his suit, or the motion of a tailcoat flapping as it moves around him.

He thinks he sees glimpses of Dean in the other mirrors, the cuffs of the long sleeved undershirt under his waistcoat, but Sam can't confirm or deny it.

Most of the mirrors just sit hollow and empty without a frame, Bloody Mary thankfully steering clear for the time being.

The mist in the Paper Mysteries tent slowly disappears as he goes through it, finding nothing hidden inside except the paper.

The Pool of Tears doesn't even leave a ripple, the surface calm, and he can't even drop in one black and silver stone into it. He can't throw a red tag tied to an orange onto the Chinese Wishing Trees, though the wishes already hanging remain where they are.

He goes through room after room in Pan's Labyrinth. Rooms he made leading to ones made by Dean and back again.

He can feel Dean. Close enough to where he expects to see Dean any second around every turn it the corner, behind every door.

But there's only softly drifting tufts of fur and fluttering tarot cards. A mannequin that follows your movements. Checkerboard-painted floors with empty squares.

There's traces of his big brother everywhere, but nothing he can focus on. Nothing solid to grasp.

The hallway lined with non matching doors and covered in rainwater bears traces of what might've been muddy footprints, or could just be shadows.

And Sam has no clue where they go.

 

Dean gasps at feeling air enter his lungs, like he'd been drowning and didn't know it until now, after all this time.

His first clear thought is he should've expected being trapped in a fire to feel much like it did in Hell, when he wasn't being tortured. Freezing.

The cold air is sharp and stings, and he can only see man made light and darkness surrounding him.

As his eyes adjust, he can make out the edges of a giant digital screen. The black railing of the virtual reality platform underneath his arm.

He's in the Immersive Reality tent.

The platform sits silently, the normally full of life tent now quiet and still.

The darkness makes it all hard to see but the whole place is see-through.

He looks down at his hands. They're shaking, but they still look solid enough. His suit is still dark and solid.

Dean lifts his hand to the headset and it goes through it with very weak resistance, like it's made of water instead of wires and plastic.

He's still looking at the headset when he hears a gasp he'd know anywhere behind him.

 

Sam holds his hands to his mouth, still not sure what he's seeing is real. The sight of Dean in the Immersive Reality tent is one he'd always wanted to see countless time before while in this vast world behind these screens.  It almost doesn't  look real despite the slightly lighter suit in the dark tent.

Then Dean turns and sees him there. As soon as Sam sees Dean's eyes, any doubts he had disappear.

He looks so young, Sam can almost see the boy he used to be, years before they came to this world, when they made the decision to make this world their own.

There's so many things Sam could say here, things Sam was afraid he'd never get to say. But only one is really important right now.

"Jerk." He says.

That one word echoes throughout the empty tent, softly kicking up the dirt on the ground.

 

Dean can only stare at Sam as he comes closer, thinking something had to have gone wrong.

"Thought you'd disappeared." Sam says when he gets to Dean, voice barely a whisper.

He looks as solid as himself, not see through like the tent. He looks rich and vibrant as some of the only color in the dark tent, his cheeks flushed, his hazel eyes filled with tears.

Dean reaches up a hand to touch Sam's face, scared he can no longer touch Sammy, like he can't with the headset.

That fear immediately dissipates when Sam feels warm and solid at his touch.

Overwhelmed, he pulls Sam into his arms, tears falling on Sam's shoulder.

"Bitch." Dean says once he can.

 

They stay wrapped around each other, unwilling to let the other go.

"We did it." Sam says. "We did exactly what we were supposed to."

"And what was that?" Dean asks. His memory still hasn't come back fully, not like Sam's seems to have.

"We used the circus to preserve everything we hold dear." Sam says. "I know you were skeptical when we first agreed, but you came around. We had to do it. For Jack, and everyone we could, so they wouldn't get trapped in Chuck's game. I tried to put enough hints to the truth as I could, but it looks like the mind wipe was too strong to see it as more than something related to the circus."

"I'm back." Dean says, stroking Sam's hair. "I'm really back."

It's not what he was expecting, with the rings embedded in their skin the only things that were keeping them grounded in this world forcibly removed. He doesn't feel removed at all, just disconnected, like they're seeing the circus from an operating table, instead of like they're dolls in a doll house.

He looks around the screens, the big imposing digital screens that show the wonders of the world and the human mind.

Only then does he see sparks starting to come out of the backs of the screens.

"The bonfire's out." Dean says. He can still feel it, the imposing emptiness. The circus is everywhere around them, like it's hanging off of them like a fine mist, like he could reach out and touch the fence despite how far away it's supposed to be. Sensing the fence, how far away it is no matter which direction he looks, where every tent lies in wait, even the dark courtyard and Lisa still standing there, is almost too easy. He can still feel the whole circus like he can feel his shirt against his skin.

The only light inside it is Sam.

But it's flickering. Like a candle constantly trying to be blown out.

"You're still holding it together." Dean says.

Sam nods. The pressure is only now starting to hit him, but without the bonfire it's even harder. His focus isn't enough to keep the details as they should be. Elements are already disappearing, fizzling out like the screens surrounding them.

And he knows if he lets it fall apart, all their work will be for nothing.

Sam's shaking, and though he's steady when Dean grips him tighter, he's still shaking.

"Come on. Just let it go, alright? Let it go, little brother."

"I can't." He says. "It's all for nothing if I let it go now."

"What's gonna happen if you do?" Dean asks.

"I don't know." Sam says. "It's suspended for the time being. But it can't survive without our influence. Now it's up to Jack."


	70. Dispersed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before now, and Jack can hardly believe that was only a few days ago, the tent had seemed never ending. But without the mist, Jack can see the pale walls of the tent and all the paper creatures with it, but none of them are animated.

The last time Jack was in this tent, Ali was with him, and it was filled with a dense fog.

Before now, and Jack can hardly believe that was only a few days ago, the tent had seemed never ending.  But now, without the mist, Jack can see the pale walls of the tent and all the paper creatures with it, but none of them are animated.

Phoenixes and Gorgons and fairies hang all throughout the space like they're hanging from the ceiling, utterly still. There's no flutter of paper wings. No movement to be seen.

Other supernatural creatures sit on the ground close to Jack's feet, including a black dog crouched as if ready to pounce on a yellow eyed werewolf. A skeletal horse with ribs that complement the tent's stripes perfectly. A massive moose with impressive antlers. A small squirrel with a bushy tail.

Standing near the squirrel is a man in a very old fashioned suit.

He's almost see-through, like a ghost, or a reflection in a piece of glass. Jack can see the squirrel easier through his jacket sleeve.

Jack's still not sure if he's even real, until the man looks his way, his face surprisingly lit up and happy upon seeing him, though Jack can't fathom why.

"I told her not to send you here." He says. "Though it's the most up close and personal."

"Who are you?" Jaco asks.

If he'd been playing close attention, Jack would've seen the flash of hurt in the man's eyes.

"My name's Dean." The man says. "And you're Jack."

Jack just nods.

"I really wish you were older for this." Dean says. Something in his voice holds unimaginable pain, but Jack's still distracted by Dean's ghostly figure.

"I'm sorry, but are you...dead?" He asks, walking closer. Now that the angle's changed, Dean actually looks solid for a moment, then the next he's back to being see-through.

"Not quite." Dean says.

"Lisa said she's the only one here who really knows what happened here."

"It's taken me awhile to realize Lisa's known to withhold the truth."

"You look like a ghost." Jack says. He doesn't know how else to describe it.

"So do you. So who's the real ghost?"

Jack doesn't have a follow up for that, so he asks a different one of his own that pops into his head.

"I found a pair of engraved rings out in the courtyard. Is one of them yours?"

To his surprise, Dean smiles.

"Yep, one of those is definitely mine." He says. "Must've fallen off before everything happened, so I had to leave it behind."

"What happened here?" Jack asks.

Dean pauses before answering.

"Kind of a long story, kid."

"Lisa said as much." Jack says, wondering if he can find Max, so he can find a proper storyteller.

"Guess that's one thing she didn't withhold." Dean says. "Lisa's plan was to trap me inside the bonfire, for reasons we really don't have time to get into, but there was a last minute change of plans, and here we are. I was vaporized and somehow put back together again in this less solid state."

Dean reaches out a hand and Jack moves to touch it. His hand falls right through without stopping, but there's a really soft resistance, like there's something that could be there, even if it's nothing that can be grabbed.

"This isn't an illusion." Dean says. Again, if Jack had been paying attention, he would've seen the devastated look on Dean's face at seeing Jack's hand go right through his.

Instead, Jack wrinkles his forehead in thought, but then he just nods. Ali said to never say never, and he's starting to think it's a good idea.

"I'm not doing the same thing as you." Dean continues, voice fighting to stay steady. "From where I'm standing, you and everything else looks like it's almost not real, But we can give you a whole nerdy lecture on it later. Follow me." He turns and starts walking towards the back.

Jack follows, taking a path through the animals. It's difficult to find somewhere he can walk, though Dean goes right past him with less issues.

Jack loses his balance stepping around the still figure of another black dog. His shoulder hits something he can't see, and it falls and hits the ground, bent and broken.

Before Jack can say a word, Dean picks it up and turns it over in his hands. He moves the broken appendages and reaches inside it, twisting something with a click. The thing moves its head and lets out a very odd noise, one Jack's never heard before.

"You can touch them?" Jack asks."a

"This is all new territory for me, kid." Dean says, flattening the appendages and letting it down off his arm. It moves its appendages but doesn't move. "Probably something to do with being the one who made it. The tents I made seem to be easier for me to interact with."

The creature jumps off his arm and next to a huge pile of smoky paper that looks like it used to be the hellhound Ali mentioned was rumored to be in here.

"They're incredible." Jack says.

"Just paper and clock gears wrapped up in magic straight out of Charms 101. If you wanted, you could learn to do it yourself."

It actually never occurred to Jack to learn to do things like this himself, but now that he's just been told straight up he can do it, now he's wondering if he should.

"Where are you taking me?" Jack asks as they reach the far side of the tent.

"Someone else wants to see you." Dean says. "He's waiting by the Chinese Wishing Trees; it's one of the few things that's the most solid."

"Don't think I've ever been to the Chinese Wishing Trees." Jack says, aware of every step he takes as they finally get to the other side of the tent.

"It's not one you find by chance." Dean says. "It finds you when you need it most, like the Room of Requirement. One of my favorite tents, actually, but tell him any of that and I'll kill you. You take an orange tied with a ribbon and red tag, then toss it onto the tree your wish is meant for."

They're finally at the wall, and Dean gestures to a small break in the fabric, barely visible row of ribbon ties that reminds him of the entrance to Max's tent with all those perfume bottles. "Head out here and you'll find the acrobat tent across the way. I'll follow you there, but you won't be able to see me until we're actually inside. Just...be careful."

Jack unties the bows and slips out of the tent with ease, finding himself on a winding path in between tents. The sky is gray but still bright, even with the rain that starts falling.

The acrobat tent is higher than the ones surrounding it, and the sign reading _Feats of Levitation_ swings over the entrance a few steps away.

Jack's been here countless times, he knows the open layout with the mysterious disappearing and reappearing performers hanging above it very well. Briefly, he wonders if, all this time, the acrobats are actually ghosts as well.

But when he goes in through the door, it's not the wide open space he's expecting.

Instead, he's met with a party. A celebration frozen in time, the same way the paper animals had been in their tent.

Dozens of performers are inside, bathed in the light from glowing lamps hanging high above among ropes and chairs and cages in crazy shapes. Some are in groups or pairs, others are sitting on any available seat, be it a pillow or a box or a chair that add a splash of color to the largely black and white crowd.

And they're all perfectly still. So still they're nearly not breathing. Like the living statues.

One near Jack has a guitar in his lap, the instrument silent in his hands.

Another is pouring a bottle of whiskey, liquid about to hit the glass.

"Should've gone the long way around." Dean says, appearing like a shadow next to him. "I've been watching them for hours now, and they're still not any less creepy."

"What's wrong with them?" Jack asks.

"Far as I've been able to test, not a thing." Dean answers. "It looks like whatever happened had a ripple effect, and the result…" he lifts a hand and waves it over the party with a flourish.

"But Lisa's part of the circus, and she's still okay." Jack says, confused.

"She's always played by her own rules." Dean says. "Over here." He adds, moving through the frozen crowd.

Navigating the crowd turns out to be way harder than in the paper animal tent, and Jack makes it a point to be more careful with every step he takes, afraid of what could happen if he would knock someone over like he did that supernatural animal.

"Nearly there." Dean says as they make their way around a huge group of people in a broken circle.

But then Jack stops, staring at the lone figure the group is looking at.

Max is still wearing his performer's costume, but his jacket has been thrown off, vest unopened over his shirt. His hands are lifted, gesturing in a way that's so familiar, Jack can tell he was interrupted in the middle of a story.

Ali's standing next to him, head turned towards the courtyard, like something's pulled her focus away from both Max and the party the exact moment the party stopped. Her hair is spilled behind her back, waves of black floating in the air like she's frozen underwater.

Jack walks around to look in her eyes, reaching out carefully to touch her hair. It moves underneath his fingers, slowly, before her hair goes back to its frozen state.

"Can she see me like this?" Jack asks. Ali's eyes are frozen yet still full of life. He thinks she's gonna blink any second, but she doesn't.

"I don't know." Dean says. "Maybe, but…"

Before he can finish, one of the chairs hanging above them falls to the ground, breaking into splinters.

"Son of a bitch." Dean says as Jack jumps back, almost hitting Ali and making her hair move into another small wave.

"In there." Dean says, referring to the side of the tent that's still a fair distance away. Then he disappears.

Jack looks back at Max and Ali. Ali's hair is settled again, not moving. Splinters from the fallen chair are on Max's boots.

Turning away, Jack carefully maneuvers around the frozen crowd to get to the edge of the tent. He looks up nervously at the other chairs and the oddly shaped cages hanging in mid air.

His fingers shake as he unties the wall.

The second he's through, he feels like he's stepped into a completely different world.

Inside the connecting tent is four trees. As large as his tree, maybe bigger, growing out of the ground. The branches bear no leaves, instead they're covered with red tags tied with ribbons and connected to oranges, overlapping other ribbons covering the bark.

 

Only a small amount of the wishes on the tags can be read, but the sight is no less vibrant as they accentuate the branches, twisting and black, casting creepy looking shadows over the walls.

Underneath them, Dean is standing with his arms wrapped around a man Jack immediately knows as the illusionist.

He looks just as ghostly as Dean. His suit looks like mist resting on the oranges.

"Hi, Jack." He says as Jack comes closer. If Jack missed the sadness in Dean's voice or on his face, there's no missing it on this man's face, but Jack has no idea what to make of it. When the man does speak, it echoes around him gently, close enough to where it's like he's standing next to Jack. "I...I like your blazer." The man adds when Jack says nothing. The words are warm and oddly familiar, like this man's known him his whole life. "I'm Sam. I…" Sam looks like he's going to say something more, but at the look he gets from Dean, along with the shake of Dean's head, seems to think better of it, and just says, "We haven't exactly met before."

"Nice to meet you." Jack says.

Sam smiles, but Jack can tell it's barely hanging in there, and this man is so different from when Jack was watching him perform, even beyond how he can see through him to the trees.

"How'd you know I'd be here?" He asks.

"Ali talked about you as part of everything that led to what happened earlier, so I was hoping you'd be showing up."

At the mention of Ali, Jack glances behind him at the tent's wall. The frozen party seems more distant than just right behind him.

"We need your help, Jack." Sam continues as he turns back. "We need you as this circus' caretaker."

"What?" Jack asks. He has no idea what he expected by coming here, but it definitely wasn't that.

"As of now, the circus needs someone to look after it." Dean says. "Right now it's drifting away, like a ship without an anchor. It needs someone to hold it down."

"And that has to be me?" Jack asks.

Dean almost protests angrily, but Sam speaks first, "That's what we'd prefer, we won't lie." Sam says. "If that's something you're willing to do. We can help you, and Max and Ali would be more than happy to help you where we can't, but ultimately, it's all up to you."

"But I'm not...anything special." Jack says. "Not like them. I'm not anyone who matters."

The two men's faces suddenly look like they don't know whether to burst out laughing, or cry, and once again Jack is in the dark.

"We know, Jack." Sam says. "It wasn't supposed to be in your future, and I wish it was, because that would make a lot of things easier, but that would be a lie. You just happened to be here right when someone like you was needed, and you're the type of person who actually cares about doing the right thing. In this case, that's all that's needed."

As Jack watches Sam in the faded light, it suddenly hits Jack that Sam's a lot older than he looks, and Dean's probably only a few years older than Sam. It's like stacking a bunch of photos together and realizing someone in it never seems to show signs of aging. The circus itself feels like the aging process is catching up with it, even though it still feels young and vibrant. It's like it's dying.

"I'll do it." Jack says, but surprisingly, Sam stops him with a see through hand.

"Hold on, Jack." Sam says. "This is important. You deserve to have what we never did. A choice. You can agree to be the circus' caretaker, or you can walk away. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Don't say yes just because you think you have to. You're not obligated to do anything."

"What would happen if I did walk away?" Jack asks. At this, the two men share a look. They don't even need to talk to communicate, but the look they give each other alone is so intimate, Jack looks away, looking up at the twisted branches.

"It won't survive." Sam finally says. He doesn't explain further, turning to Jack as he continues. "I know it's a lot to put on your shoulders, Jack, but we don't have anyone else to ask."

Suddenly, the tags tied to oranges start to fall. Some of the ribbons fall apart, the oranges now lying on the ground before rolling away into the shadows.

Sam wavers, and for a moment Jack thinks Sam's gonna faint, but Dean's there to hold him steady.

"Sammy." Dean says, stroking his hair. "You're the strongest person I'll ever know. You can hold on for a little more. I know you can."

"I'm sorry." Sam says.

Jack can't tell who he's talking to, him or Dean.

"You have nothing to apologise for." Dean says.

Sam keeps a firm grip on Dean's hand.

"So if you two were gone, and the circus...died, what would happen?" Jack asks.

"Honestly, I don't really know." Sam admits.

"Can't be anything good." Dean mutters.

"What would I need to do?" Jack asks.

"You'd need to finish what I started." Sam says. "I...I was really impulsive and made a move I wasn't supposed to. And let's not forget the bonfire."

"What about the bonfire?" Jack asks.

"The circus is like a machine." Dean says. "The bonfire's like a really powerful battery. Well, one of them."

"Two things need to happen." Sam says. "First off, the bonfire needs to be relit. Half of the circus will be powered by that alone."

"And the other half?" Jack asks.

"That's gonna be harder." Sam says. "That's the part I'm holding onto. And if this was gonna work, I'd have to ask you to take the reins."

"Oh."

"You'd have to hold on to it." Sam says. "For the rest of your life. You'd become the one keeping the circus alive. You could leave, but not for too long. I don't know if you'll be able to hand it over to someone else. The circus would belong to you. For good."

That's when the true magnitude of what they're asking Jack to do hits him.

It wouldn't be just the small handful of years he'd have to endure at Harvard. It's even bigger than when he was supposed to take over the family farm.

He looks from Sam to Dean, and knows if he really didn't want to do it, Sam would let him go, even if Dean might not agree or what the consequences would be.

He thinks of over a thousand questions to ask, but they're all meaningless.

He already knows what is answer is.

He'd already made his choice when he was 6 years old, under a completely different tree, covered in acorns and chestnuts and a simple pocket watch.

He will always choose this circus.

"I'll do it." He says. "I'm staying. Whatever it is you need me to do, I'll embrace it wholeheartedly."

"Thank you, Jack." Sam says quietly. The words echoing in his ears calm his nerves.

"Naturally." Dean says. "Guess it's time to make it official, don't you think?"

"But is that really necessary?" Sam asks.

"You really think I'm just gonna accept a handshake deal after all we've been through?" Dean says, and it's clear by his tone he's talking about way more than just the circus. Sam frowns, but eventually, he nods in consent, and Dean lets go of Sam's arm. Sam manages to stay steady, and his appearance doesn't waver.

"Do I need to sign something?" Jack asks.

"Not quite, kid." Dean says. He take a ring out of his pocket, engraved with something Jack can't decipher in this light. He reaches up to a branch above him and passes through one of the tagged oranges until it's glowing bright.

Jack can't help but wonder who's wish that tagged orange happens to be.

"I made a wish on this particular tree years ago." Dean says, practically reading Jack's mind.

"What did you wish for?" Jaco asks, hoping it's not too intrusive a question, but Dean doesn't hesitate.

Instead, he closes his hand around the ring, then offers his hand to Jack.

Jack tentatively reaches out, expecting to pass right through Dean's hand again, but he's surprised when he's met with nearly solid skin. Dean leans forward and whispers in Jack's ear.

"I wished for my brother." He says.

Jack doesn't even have time to process what that even means when his hand starts hurting. The pain is blinding and hot as he feels the ring burning into his skin.

"What are you doing?" He asks when he gets enough air into his lungs. It's a sharp-shooting pain, reverberating throughout his whole body, and he can barely keep his knees from collapsing underneath him.

"Binding contract." Dean says. "One of my many talents."

He lets go of Jack's hand, and the pain disappears immediately, but Jack's legs are still shaking.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Jack nods, looking at his hand. The ring's disappeared, but now there's a red circle burned into his skin. Jack doesn't need to be told it's going to leave a scar he'll carry for the rest of his life. He closes his hand around it, then looks to Sam and Dean.

"What's next?" He asks.


	71. Bonfire II: The Lightening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers the story Max told him about the bonfire, when it was first lit. But now it's different, because now he knows that was the night Max was born. When Max had told him the story, the details had been so vivid, it was like he'd been there to see it for himself. The archers, the colors, the elements, all of it.
> 
> And now Jack stands here, trying to do the exact same thing with just a journal, some dental floss, and a borrowed lighter. By himself. In the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I goofed, and the end of the last chapter was actually supposed to go here, so I realize I might've taken away some of the feels. Feel free to skip that part if it makes it easier.

_Lawrence, November 3, 2019_

Jack easily finds the room stacked with books, the large white dove in the corner blinking at him curiously as he goes through the desk.

He goes through the journal anxiously before finding the pages with Max and Ali's signatures in their handwriting. He carefully rips the late out, taking it out of the journal altogether.

He finds a pen in a drawer and signs his own name on the paper as he was told. While he waits for the ink to dry, he gathers up all the other things he needs, going over the list again and again so he doesn't forget anything.

He easily finds the dental floss, a package of it sitting on one of the many piles of books.

Two cards, one a playing card and the other a tarot card with Adam and Eve emblazoned on it, are buried in the papers on the desk. He tucks those into the front of the journal as well.

The ravens in their own cage above him sit with a rustle of their feathers.

The pocket watch on a long silver chain winds up being the most difficult, and considering he has one just like it from Ali, that's quite an accomplishment. Jack eventually finds it on the ground next to the desk, and when be tries to dust it off, he can see the initials S.C. engraved on it. The watch itself is no longer ticking.

He rushes back to the courtyard, finding Lisa still waiting for him.

"Sam said I need to borrow your lighter." He says.

Lisa looks at him curiously, head tilted, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

"I guess that will do." She says finally. She pulls the lighter out of her pocket and tosses it to him.

It's heavier than it looks, all intents and purposes just a flip lighter, but has several symbols engraved in it he can't make out thanks to the tarnished surface.

"You be careful with that." Lisa says.

"Why? Is it magical?" Jack asks, turning it over in his hands.

"No, but it's definitely old. It was made by someone incredibly important to me. So does that mean you're gonna relight it?" She gestures to the big imposing bowl of metal that was once lit.

"Want some help?"

"Are you offering?"

Lisa shrugs.

"I don't really care about the results." She says, but the way she looks around the tents and the ground beneath them tells Jack she's lying.

"I know you're not telling the truth." He says. "But I'm still doing it, and I think this should be something I do solo."

Lisa smiles, first one he's seen that actually looks genuine.

"I'll leave you to it then." She says. She traces her fingers over the rim of the cauldron and most of the water in it evaporates into steam, in a soft mist that disappears with the fog.

With no more advice or suggestions, she walks down one of the many decorated paths, a small stream of smoke going behind her, and once again, Jack is alone.

He remembers the story Max told him about the bonfire, when it was first lit. But now it's different, because now he knows that was the night Max was born. When Max had told him the story, the details had been so vivid, it was like he'd been there to see it for himself. The archers, the colors, the elements, all of it.

And now Jack stands here, trying to do the exact same thing with just a journal, some dental floss, and a borrowed lighter. By himself. In the rain.

He mutters to himself what he can recall of Sam's instructions, the ones more complicated than finding ingredients. Things about concentrating and his desires that he still doesn't fully understand.

He wraps the journal with a long string of floss, some of it stained with something dried up.

He ties it in a knot three times, tying the book closed with the loose page on the front, the cards firmly inside.

The pocket watch he hangs around it, looping it around.

He throws it in the empty cauldron where it hits the bottom with a dull wet thud, metal on metal making a loud clatter as the watch hits the bowl.

Sam and Dean's rings sit in the mud next to his feet. He picks those up, sees they have the same engravings as his ring did, then throws them in as well.

He goes back towards the acrobat tent, he can see it from the courtyard, taller than any of the other tents around it.

Then, on impulse, he pulls out the last of the things in his pockets and adds them into the cauldron as well. His unlimited admission ticket. The now dried out blue bellflower that had been pinned to his lapel at his dinner with the _Männer aus Briefen_. Ali's pocket watch.

He hesitates, turning over the small bottle with Max's version of his tree in his hands, but then he throws that in as well, flinching when the bottle shatters.

He takes a red tag tied to an orange with a ribbon in one hand, Lisa's lighter in the other.

He struggles with the lighter for a moment before finally getting a flame.

Then he holds it to the red tag, flinching when the tag immediately ignites.

He throws the burning tag, ribbon and orange into the cauldron.

Nothing changes.

 _I want this._ Jack thinks. I _need it. I choose to take it. Please. Please let this work._

He wishes with all his might, harder than he has for anything in his life, including birthdays and shooting stars. Wishing for himself. For the _Männer aus Briefen_ in their blue blazers. For a kind clockmaker he never had the privilege of meeting himself. For Sam and Dean and Max and Ali and even for Lisa, though she claims to not care.

Jack closes his eyes.

For a moment, everything is silent and still. Even the rain has stopped temporarily.

He swears he feels two pairs of hands on his shoulders.

There's a weight on his chest that wasn't there before.

Something inside the cauldron sparks.

When the fire catches, the flames are bright and orange.

When they reach their traditional white, they're blinding, a shower of sparks falling like a meteor shower.

The blast of heat forces Jack backwards, hitting him like a heat wave, the heat traveling all the way into his lungs. He falls back to the ground that's not charred or muddy anymore, now it's firm and dry and patterned in a spiral of white salt and black sand.

All around him, lights are popping alive along the tents, flickering like stars.

 

Dean stand underneath the Chinese Wishing Trees, watching as the torn ribbons right themselves again, hanging from the tree branches like they should be.

A moment later, Sam reappears at Dean's side.

"It worked." Sam says excitedly. "It really worked."

Dean grabs Sam in a hug the way Sam had grabbed him before they had been trapped in the fire.

Like they're the only ones in the world that really matter.

 

After that, they know they can't stick around any longer, and make their way to Jack's old backyard. Fitting, they suppose, that the rift would be the same place in this world as when he was born in theirs.

But they'd done everything they could to ensure everyone was in good hands, and the memories of the past 15 years in this world would be loved and appreciated the way they're meant to.

And yet, Sam still looks sad at having to leave it all behind. Or maybe he wishes they could've told Jack the truth.

But that's why he has an awesome big brother to help him.

"Hey." Dean says, making Sam's head turn. "I know, I wish we could've told him the truth too, but it has to be this way. Chuck would never let him live in our world. Here, he'll always have us here, even if we are technically dead."

Sam nods, because he knows it's true. Jack is safer here than he'd ever be in their world, but it still feels like they failed him, because they couldn't find a way to keep him with them.

"And besides." Dean goes on, "Here he'll even have a little girlfriend. He won't be alone."

That definitely helps. And wouldn't you know it, that's when they reach the place. Guess when you spend too much time in your thoughts and top it off with a heart-to-heart, time passes faster.

They walk towards the house and to the backyard. The rift is there, waiting for them to walk through, caused by releasing their influence on this world.

And Billie is waiting for them. They're grateful she gave them this chance to keep so many people safe, but now faced with knowing they're leaving it, now even Dean starts to feel the same sadness.

But Billie doesn't have time to waste on sentimentality. Upon seeing them approach, she asks them, "Is it done?"

They can't fathom answering that, because it's so much more than just "done". But they just nod in response, not wanting to risk being stuck in this world, not after all they went through to leave it.

"Then it's time to go." Billie tells them. "You can do nothing more. It's all in Jack's hands now. Once you pass through here, you'll be right back where you left off, fighting off zombies."

With that, she disappears. Dean moves to go through the rift, but upon seeing Sam still looking back, he reaches out a hand to pat his shoulder and get his attention.

They share another look, and Sam knows what he needs to do. Jack was their son, and he always will be, no matter what universe they're in, but he still wouldn't trade Dean for Jack. Their time in this world is truly done, and it's time for them to go.

Seeing Sam understands, Dean smiles, lets go of Sam's shoulder, and walks through the rift, knowing Sam's right behind him.

When it's Sam's turn, Sam only looks back once more, whispering, "Goodbye, Jack." before he follows in his brother's footsteps, and passes through the rift.

And just like that, the two boys known as the Winchester brothers have ceased to exist in this world, the rift closing behind them, sealing it away from them forever.


	72. Destiny Disclosed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part V: Divination
> 
> I don't really think of myself as a writer as much as I consider myself an emissary, a way for readers to be at the circus without ever stepping foot in it. A way to revisit it again after just leaving, even if it's only in their head, when they can't go back right away. All I do is put it down in words and write them on scraps of paper, words they can read and reread as much as they want, so they can feel the circus wherever they may go, regardless of what time of day it is. Like a completely different alternate reality.  
> When you think of it, it's almost supernatural, isn't it?
> 
> \--Donatello Redfield, 2016
> 
> How do you judge the brightness of a light when you’re the source? A spotlight can never see the shadows it casts.
> 
> \--Neal Shusterman, UnWholly, Unwind #2

It's late, so the line's dwindled down to nothing for the fortune-teller's tent.

Outside it's cold and scented with burnt sugar and smoke, while inside it's warm and there's a smell of nag champa incense and wildflowers and peppermint.

You don't have to wait in the tent's lobby for long before going through the beads.

It sounds like a sudden thunderstorm when the beads clatter. The room beyond is covered in candles.

You sit down at the only table in the middle of the room. The chair is comfortable, despite its appearance suggesting otherwise.

The fortune-teller's face doesn't hide behind a veil, and though she has several props laid out on the table, she doesn't use any of them.

Instead, she uses a star chart for the constellation that's supposed to be the most visible on this particular night, and reads it like she would the palm of your hand.

She talks about things she shouldn't know with vivid details.

She tells you things you've known for years. Information you suspected but never confirmed. Ideas you would've laughed at before tonight.

The detailed drawing of the constellation Orion almost looks like it's moving in the candlelight. Shifting and changing right in front of you.

Before you exit the tent, the fortune-teller reminds you to never say never.


	73. Archetypes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So what brings you to my neck of the woods?" Gabriel asks, turning to look at Ali like he completely forgot she was there.
> 
> Ali opens the briefcase on the desk, pulling out a chunk of papers.
> 
> "I have a favor to ask you, Gabriel." She says.

_Springfield Ohio, December 2019_

Ali Banes stands on the front porch or Gabriel Novak's mansion, leather briefcase in hand and a large duffle bag at her feet.

She alternates between ringing the doorbell repeatedly and using the knocker very loudly, though she can hear the bell ringing behind the door.

When the door does open, Gabriel himself is behind it, his white shirt messy and a crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

"You're taller than I remember." He says, surveying her from the top of her dark hair to the toes of her black boots. "Where's your other half?"

"My brother's traveling." Ali says, picking up the duffle bag and following Gabriel in.

The Kali statue in the hall is in serious need of a polish. The whole place looks like a tornado hit it, or as much as it can for a mansion stuffed to the brim with stuff like antiques and books and pieces of art in its own messy way. It's nowhere near as shiny as when she and Max had run through the hallways what seems like more than just a few years ago, chasing black kittens through a melting pot of guests dressed as the rainbow.

"Where's your staff?" She asks as they climb the staircase.

"Fired them all." Gabriel says. "They were a bunch of morons, couldn't do anything I told them. But the chefs are still here, despite not having had a Dessert Dinner in a long time. But at least they can cook a decent meal."

Ali follows him to his study. She's actually never been in here before, but she highly doubts it was always this messy, covered in all these blueprints and candy wrappers.

Gabriel wanders across the room, adding the paper in his hand to a pile on the chair, and staring blankly at a set of blueprints covering the windows.

Ali clears a space on the table and sets her briefcase on it, moving books and antlers and carved animals, leaving the duffle bag on the floor.

"So what brings you to my neck of the woods?" Gabriel asks, turning to look at Ali like he completely forgot she was there.

Ali opens the briefcase on the desk, pulling out a chunk of papers.

"I have a favor to ask you, Gabriel." She says.

"And what favor would that be?"

"I need you to give up your rights as Proprietor to the circus." Ali finds a pen somewhere in the clutter on the desk and tests it on a scrap to see if it works.

"The circus was never really mine. Not really." Gabriel mutters.

"Yes it was." Ali says, drawing an elaborate letter _A._ "This was all your idea. But I know your time is precious, and you can't spare a moment on it, so I thought giving it over to someone else was best."

Gabriel thinks about it for a good while, then finally nods and walks over to the desk to read the contract himself.

"I see Castiel and Jo listed here. But not Anna?" He says as he looks it over.

"I've already talked to everyone else." Ali says. "Anna told me her time with the circus is done, but she knows Jo will do just fine in her place."

"And who's Mr. Kline?" Gabriel asks.

"He's a very good friend of mine." Ali says, blushing slightly. "Believe me when I say the circus won't be in better hands."

When Gabriel gets to the end of the paper, she hands him the pen.

He signs his name in a shaky scrawl, letting the pen drop once it's done.

"You don't know how grateful I am for this." Ali blows on the ink to dry it faster before returning the contract to the briefcase. Gabriel waves her words off with a flippant gesture, going back to the window and staring at the blueprints covering it.

"What're those for?" Ali asks as she closes the briefcase.

"There's all these... _ideas_ from Castiel and I have no idea what I'm gonna do with them." Gabriel says, gesturing to all of them with a flourish.

Ali removes her jacket, leaving it hanging off the back of a chair to look at the blueprints and sketches hanging from all over the room. Some of them are rooms already completed, others are just pieces of architectural marvels or archways and hallways.

She stops when she sees a dartboard with a knife stabbed through it, silver stained dark. The knife disappears as Ali keeps walking around the room, though Gabriel's not paying attention.

"They were supposed to be additions to the house." he says as she surveys the room, "But they don't quite go together like they're supposed to."

"It's a museum." Alone says, putting the pieces together on her head and seeing where they go together with the building already shown to her by the constellation Horologium. It's obviously not in order, but there's no denying it. She pulls one of the sets down and switches it for another set, arranging them in their own story. "This isn't your mansion." She explains to Gabriel looks at her with curiosity. "It's a completely new one." She takes one showing a bunch of doors, alternate ideas for the same entrance, and puts them down next to each other, letting them go into different rooms.

Gabriel watches her work, a smile starting to spread on his face once he sees what she's doing.

He makes adjustments to the pile of blue paper himself, responding to her arrangements, surrounding miniature replicas of Brazilian monuments surrounded by big bookshelves. They sit together on the floor, combining all the rooms and hallways and staircases.

Gabriel almost calls for Dean, but stops himself.

"I keep forgetting he's gone." He says to Ali. "Just disappeared and never came back. Not even a call or explanation. You think with all the notes he's ever written, he would've left me one."

"I was led to believe his departure was very sudden, no time to leave a note." Ali says. "And I know he regrets not being able to tie up all the loose ends with you here himself."

"Any idea why he left at all?" Gabriel asks, looking at her.

"He quit to be with Sam Campbell." Ali says, unable to stop smiling.

"Ha!" Gabriel guffaws. "I knew it! Didn't think he had the guts. Good for both of them. Let's give them a toast."

"A toast?"

"Nah, you're right. No champagne." Gabriel says, pushing a pile of empty candy wrappers as he puts another pile of sketches on the floor. "Let's dedicate a room to them. Which one do you think they'd like best?"

Ali looks over the sketches to contemplate. There's several one of them would like by themselves, and more they'd both like. But then, she sees one that stands out above the rest. It has guns hanging on the walls, a laptop at the desk that works despite having no Wi-Fi in the whole building. Actually, it's not even a desk. It's one big table with a big map of the world. A framed piece of upholstery with the initials D.W. and S.W. hanging on the wall. There's a tape player, as well as a box of old cassettes that still work. And of course the whole place is lined with shelves stuffed with books on the supernatural. Cozy, and familiar.

"That's the one." She says.

Gabriel takes a pencil and writes, "Dedicate to D. Winchester and S. Campbell." along the edge.

"I could look for a new assistant for you, it to want." Ali offers. "I can stick around in Springfield for a little longer."

The rather big duffle bag that Ali had on the floor suddenly rolls over with a soft thump.

"What's in there?" Gabriel asks, looking at it nervously.

"It's for you." Ali says excitedly.

She adjusts the bag, carefully opening it and pulling out a fluffy black cat with a big bushy tail. It looks like it's fur was dunked in a pot of ink.

"His name's Loki." Ali tells him. "He'll sometimes choose to ignore you when you call him, and he knows tricks, but mostly he likes getting into trouble and climbing things. Thought you could use someone to keep on your toes."

She sets the kitten down and hovers her hand over it. The kitten stands up on its hind legs with a small chirp and licks Ali's fingers before looking towards Gabriel.

"Hello, Loki." He says.

"I'm not giving you your memory back." Ali says, watching as the kitten tries to jump into Gabriel's lap. "I don't know if that's even possible for me, but I'm sure Max could do it. But really, you don't need that on your shoulders. Sometimes you just gotta let things go instead of holding onto them."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Gabriel asks, picking up the kitten and scratching it on its bum as it rears back and purrs.

"Not a thing." Ali says. "Thank you so much, Gabriel."

She leans over to give him a peck on the cheek.

As soon as her mouth touches his skin, Gabriel feels lighter than he has in years, like whatever haze he'd been walking through has finally cleared, the plans for his museum now more solid in his mind, ideas for more productions righting themselves in ways that are doable in ways he couldn't see until now.

Gabriel and Ali spend so many hours rearranging and adding to the blueprints, making new spaces to fill with Gabriel's antiques and art and visions for the future.

The black kitten playfully bats at the papers as they work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat mentioned is here but I don't know if the cat has found a forever home. http://www.catfinders.org/2017/11/05/found-black-kitten-with-fluffy-tail-concord-nh/


	74. Anecdotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight for good and evil is over, the bad guys are dead, everyone in distress has been rescued. And they could've all saves themselves, if they bothered to. There's not many stories about going on quests or slaying dragons and happily ever afters. There's no clear path or goal. The dragons turn into humans lickety split, making them as dangerous as you or me.

_Italy, January 2020_

"Stories change, kid." The man in the leather jacket named John Winchester says, voice unbelievably sad. "The fight for good and evil is over, the bad guys are dead, everyone in distress has been rescued. And they all could've saved themselves, if they bothered to. There's not many stories about going on quests or slaying dragons and happily ever afters. There's no clear path or goal. The dragons turn into humans lickety split, making them as dangerous as you or me. And the endings aren't happy, sad or really anything at all. They go on, overlapping until the lines blur, your story blending into your sister's, and then THAT story latches on to a bigger one, and there's no telling when it's going to end, if it ends at all. Good and evil go way beyond just angels or demons, or a hunter and a monster. Does the demon not think what he does is right? Is a monster not just acting the only way it knows how? Although it's probably only very few cases in which a vampire goes to such lengths to drink animal blood to avoid killing people."

Max sips his champagne, thinking of the words he was just told before answering.

"But wouldn't that mean there never were any legends?" He asks.

John shrugs, then lifts the whiskey bottle from the table to refill his glass.

"That's... complicated. The meat of the story and the research that goes into it are easy. Time and biases have changed their meanings, made them more story than facts, making them bigger than just a part of an old dusty book. But that needs time. The best legends and fairytales need time to marinade into what they are today."

Their waiter stops their conversation and talks briefly with Max, not paying any attention to John Winchester.

"How many languages are you fluent in?" He asks once the waiter leaves.

"I stopped counting a long time ago." Max says. "Soon as I understand what makes the language tick, I can speak nearly anything."

"Very impressive."

"Naturally, I managed bits and pieces, then Sam taught me how to see the finer details, put words and sounds together to form sentences."

"I'd hope he was a better teacher than his grandfather."

"All I knew about his grandfather was how different the two are. For one, he never forced either me or Ali onto a game board half-cocked."

"Did you ever even know what the game you're hinting at even was?" John asks.

"Did you?" Max fires back. "Seems to me the rules were never clear to anyone, including you and Sam's grandfather."

"Very few things in this world are absolutely clear. A really, really long time ago, I gave up my son because I was too grief stricken to care for him properly. Somehow he ended up with his grandfather, and all this time, he'd been waiting for a moment to really stick it to me. He thought he could turn Sam against Dean, and in doing so destroy me. He was so arrogant, he actually never stopped to consider the real reason Sam's powers were so strong. The early games were a lot simpler, just simple tests, each time with another teacher and another student. But always, it was just about Samuel proving he was better than everyone, knew better than everyone. It's one thing to put two people in an arena and tell them to duel. It's quite another when there's restrictions and conditions to go along with it. Where you move a piece on the board just by breathing. This last one was definitely interesting. I'll admit Sam was clever in managing to find the way out, the one I was hoping Dean would figure out. But now I've lost both my sons in the process." He takes a sip of his whiskey. "They were both better men than I could ever hope to be."

"You think they're dead?" Max asks.

John sets down his glass.

"You're telling me you know otherwise?" He counters after a long pause.

"I do know otherwise. Just like how I know that Sam is your son, and his grandfather, who's as good as dead, is right over by that window." Max lifts his glass, tilting it towards the window by the door.

The reflection in the glass, which might show a man in his own leather jacket, or could just be a trick of a distorted piece of glass.

"Neither Sam or Dean are dead." Max continues. "But they're not astral projections, either." He nods towards the window. "They've left this world altogether. They left traces behind to get the circus going again, and they're everywhere in the circus.You can experience things they've never done here in Pan's Labyrinth. You can visit their memories of their shared heaven in the Heaven tent. It's amazing."

"You think coming to this world and leaving only memories behind instead of staying is amazing?"

"It's how you look at it." Max says. "They're together. They left a world they never really belonged to in the first place. They put so much emotion and love into every single tent, and made sure the tents, the attractions, and all the performers that wind up working for it, were safeguarded by the one person who would hold them as dearly as they did. And with time, a new generation will come in and fall in love with the circus all over again, and their parents who came when the circus first opened, will pass their stories down to them. Dean left behind something to teach me his illusion techniques, but I'm still working on it. So yes, I do think it's amazing. He never blamed you for what you did, just so you know."

"Did he actually tell you that?" John asks.

"He didn't have to." Max says. "I read him. I can read people's life stories, sometimes in more clear details if the person lets me. He let me because Sam did. I know he doesn't blame you for anything. Because of you, he got his little brother back."

"I did it as the polar opposite to counteract Sam, to achieve the perfect balance. Perhaps that balance pushed them straight into the throes of codependency." John leans into the table, like he might whisper what he says next, but he doesn't get any quieter. "And that was the problem all along, as you can tell. They were too perfectly balanced. They were so wrapped up in each other they didn't stand a chance being pitted against each other. And now they're back wherever it is they came from."

"So I'm guessing you're not one for chick flick moments?" Max says, refilling his glass.

"I was in my younger years. Before all of this, even before I served."

"I can see that." Max says as he sets the bottle back down. John's leather jacket stretches back to a time that's been all but forgotten. Longer than he's capable of knowing. He only sees small parts, much of it blocked out or drowned out in alcohol. Whatever is circus related is the easiest to read, the most clear.

"I'm not that old, am I?"

"You still walk like a predator despite your age."

John Winchester smiles, the only time he's ever changed his face the whole night.

"You're very intuitive." He says. "Hardly anyone, hunter or non-hunter, notices that. Yes, I've aged pretty well, and I've done things that were both wonderful and horrifying. Most of which I'd rather forget. It would weigh on anyone, don't forget. Everything weighs on someone, in some way shape or form. Just like with time, it all fades away. Nobody's exempt from it, not even me."

"Are you gonna do what he did?" Max gestures to the window.

"I sincerely hope not. I'm okay with knowing some things happen as they're meant to, even if I find ways to not deal with it properly. He was trying to be a vengeful god, taking out any supernatural creatures he could. Even if it was the most inhumane way imaginable. That's not really being a god, as much as it is being a false idol. He'll begin to hate it before long, if he doesn't already. I hope Sam and Dean's fate will be much more favorable."

"You mean…you're okay with how they were?" Max asks.

"I mean I'm okay with them being happy in whatever form that is, if they'll let themselves." He pauses before adding. "I wish the same for the rest of you as well."

"Thank you." Max says, thought he's not sure it fills him with warm fuzzies.

"It was me who sent you that cradle when you two were born. Welded it with my own two hands. Least I can do is hope you die how you live. Cause I'm pretty sure I won't be there when you finally do leave this world for good. In fact, I sincerely hope not."

"Isn't the supernatural enough to live for?" Max asks.

"Supernatural." John Winchester repeats, laughing on the last syllable. "This is not the supernatural. It's the way the world has always been, and only a couple handful of people that are slowly getting smaller every year have ever stopped to do something about it. Look at this." He says, waving at the tables around them. "There's probably one and only one person in here to have the first clue about some of the things that have turned out to be true, and to make it worse, even if we tried to help them, they wouldn't accept it, and they would die. They'd rather believe there's nothing out there but the sky and air, because if they were to think otherwise, they'd be scared out of their minds, worried any moment something's gonna come after them."

"But not everyone is as ignorant." Max says.

"True, some people are more accepting. It's easier when it's a fresh face unlike most people here. There are ways, naturally. None of the smoke and mirrors crap, but other ways of looking deeper into the universe. Very rarely is there someone willing to learn them, sadly, and even fewer have natural talent. You and Ali do, as some sort of side effect to the lighting of the bonfire. What exactly do you do with yours? What do you get out of it?"

Max contemplates it before answering. Beyond the gates of the circus things like that seem to have no use, although maybe that's not what John's talking about. "I'm a storyteller." He says. That's as truthful he can be when it comes to his talents.

"A storyteller?" John asks, clearly intrigued.

"Stories, fairy tales, legends." Max says. "Stop me when you hear it. What we were talking about earlier about things being more complex than they used to be. No, I'm wrong. They always were complex, but now we can see it. I see bits and pieces and use them as narratives. It's not so important, and that's not why I came here---."

"Yes it is." John Winchester interrupts. "If you don't tell things how they happened, who will? When the fight's over and there's a victor for the good guys or bad guys, when the explorer finds their treasure, or the vampire drinks royal blood for the first time, someone needs to make sense of all those overlapping narratives. There's something supernatural about it. It's in the person listening, and for every single person who hears it, the story will mean something different to them, and they'll relate to it in ways others can't. From the most insignificant to the most soul crushing. You could tell a story that gets down to their very core, and leaves them completely different from that point on. Who knows what a person will do upon hearing your story, your words. That's your job, your purpose in life. Ali may see the future, but you can manipulate it. Don't ever forget that." He sips his whiskey again. "There's so many different definitions of supernatural, after all."

Max pauses, to think about how differently John Winchester is looking at him. He wonders if all those big words about how things were never as simple as they thought is actually an act, something John stopped thinking about long ago.

While before he'd been pretty nonchalant, now he's looking at Max as a piece of candy a child might beg for, or the way a vampire would stalk someone to suck their blood. Or maybe a first time mentor looking to possibly try again, after that first attempt.

"You're distracting me." Max says.

The man in the leather jacket just sips his whiskey, regarding Max over his glass.

"So the game's over?" Max asks.

"Kinda sorta." John sets his glass down before he continues. "Technically, it's gone into a permanent stalemate, one that's usually not supposed to happen. It wasn't played all the way through to the end."

"What about the circus?"

"Is that why you're really here?"

Max nods. "Jack's taken on his new job from Sam. My sister went to see Gabriel about the business side. On paper and in every other way that matters, we're already controlling it. It was my idea to handle this part of it."

"I don't really like loose ends either, but it's not that easy."

"Never said it would be." Max says.

In the next pause, a loud burst of laughter comes out from a few tables over, vibrating through the air before calming back down, back to the quiet conversations.

"You don't know the first thing about what you've stepped into here, kid." John says quietly. "How delicate a venture like this all really is. How unpredictable the consequences are. What if Jack never took over the circus? What would he be doing? Just another dreamer, aching for something he will never fully understand."

"Since when is there anything wrong with being a dreamer?"

"There isn't. But live out a dream too long, it becomes a nightmare. It would be better just letting it all go and disappearing into people's memories, while people can still look back on it fondly. It's gonna happen anyway. That's how it's supposed to be. Maybe you should do it too."

"I'm sorry, but I can't do that." Max says.

"You're still young."

"I may not know the exact rules to the game you were playing, but I know you owe us this, since we were all in danger because of you and Sam's grandfather."

John Winchester sighs. He steals a glance towards the window, but Samuel Campbell's shadow can't be seen.

If Samuel Campbell has anything to say about it, he's not talking.

"Guess that's fair." John finally says after thinking it over. "But I don't owe you a damn thing, kid."

"Then why'd you come at all?"

John smile, but doesn't say anything.

"I'm here because the way I see it, it's up for grabs." Max continues. "It means nothing to you now. It's more important to me than it ever was to you. I'm not leaving without a deal. Name your price and I'll pay it."

John's smile gets bigger.

"A story."

"A story?"

"This story. Yours. The story of how we wound up here, sitting at this table, with this champagne and whiskey. I'm not after something you just make up here---" he taps his temple---"I want one that comes from all the way down here." He covers his chest, but Max knows he's not talking about his heart.

Max thinks it over for a moment.

"So if I tell you a story from deep down in my soul, you'll let me have the circus?" He asks.

"I'll let you have what little means of it I have left. When we're done here, I'll have no claim over it, no connection. I'll be honest, I lost it the second my boys left this world, but I am a good negotiator. When that whiskey bottle is emptied, a game played long before you were even born will have officially ended in a true stalemate. That'll work. Do we have a deal, Maximilian Banes?"

"We have a deal." Max says.

John Winchester pours the last of his whiskey. The light catches and reflects in the empty bottle as he sets it back down.

Max swirls his champagne around in his glass.  _Champagne is tasting the stars._  He thinks. It's a metaphor he first heard Donatello saying, but he now knows it's from the monk Dom Perignon.

There's so many places he could start.

So many aspects to think about.

He wonders if his circus story could turn into another story in a perfume bottle.

Max sips his champagne and sets his glass back down on the table. He sits back in his chair, steadily returning the stare that's aimed back at him. Going like he has all the time in the world, the universe, from back to the days when stories actually meant something, instead of being reduced to a witty anecdote in fanfiction, but in time, times will change and even those will not be interesting enough. He takes a breath and lets it out in a tangled mess of words from deep down in his soul, and they fall out of his mouth like word vomit.

"The circus appears out of the blue."


	75. Hereux Chasse

Very few people are still walking through Le Cirque de la Chasse with you in these early hours before dawn. Some are wearing blue blazers with a star pinned to their lapels, that still manage to stand out along the black white and silver.

You don't have a lot of time left before the sun's going to come up. You're faced with the problem that's inevitable when this happens: What are you going to do for the last few hours? Go to one more tent? One that you've already fallen in love with, or one you've still yet to find? Or maybe you should forget about a tent and go for another early morning caramel apple.

The night that had seemed to go on forever before is now slipping away from you, ticking by minute after minute as the present becomes the past, and pushes you straight into the future.

  
You spend your final hours at the circus exactly how you wanted, because this time is yours and only yours. But inevitably, it's time for Le Cirque de la Chasse to close for the night, even if you'll be back much later in the day.

The tunnel of stars is gone, now replaced by a simple curtain separating the courtyard and entrance.

When it closes, it suddenly feels like a bigger distance than just the few steps you took, now divided by a striped curtain.

You hesitate before leaving, pausing to watch the amazingly detailed clock as it ticks down the seconds, pieces still moving flawlessly. You can watch it more closely than you did when you first showed up, since there isn't a crowd blocking your view.

Underneath the clock, there's a small, almost unseen silver plaque.

You have to move closer to see what's engraved on the shiny metal.

Across the top, with names and dates underneath in a smaller font, reads

_In memoriam_

_Donatello Redfield_  
_December 2, 1952-November 1, 2018_

and

 _Gabriel Novak_  
_September 4, 1970--February 15, 2049_

Someone's waiting for you as you read the memorial plaque. You feel their eyes on you before you realize where that gaze is actually coming from. The ticket booth still has someone in it. The woman inside is watching you, and smiling. You don't really know what you're supposed to be doing. She gives you a wave, small but friendly to assure you everything's okay.

That a lot of people who come to Le Cirque de la Chasse stop to look at the clock by the gates before leaving. That some even stop to read the engraved memorial plaque for two men who have been dead for years now. That the position you're in now is one many before you have already, underneath the twinkling lights and stars.

The woman gestures for you to come to the booth. While you make your way to her, she sorts through the piles of paper and tickets. There's a spray of feathers in black and silver in her hair as she moves. When she finds what she's looking for, she gives it to you, and you take the business card from her gloved hand. One side is black, the other silver.

 _Mr. Jack Kline, Proprietor_  
_jack@huntercircus.com_

You turn it over in your hands, wondering what you'd possibly right to Mr. Kline. Maybe you'll thank him for his unique circus, and that'll be enough.

You thank the woman for the card, but all she gives back is a smile.

You head for the gates, reading the card in your hand once more. Before passing through the gates into the field, you turn back to the booth, but it's now empty, a screen pulled down over the window.

You carefully tuck the card in your pocket.  
Your walk through the gates that takes you from decorated ground to dead grass feels heavier than it should.

You think, as you walk away from Le Cirque de la Chasse and into the lawn, that you felt more alive inside the circus.

You're suddenly not sure which side of the fence is real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And just like that, this fic is finished. Thank you all so much for sticking it out this long! 
> 
> This idea originally came from when I ordered a little book called The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, and just like that, the whole crossover came to life. But as I got closer to the end, it became so much more than that. I realized I was doing a true farewell to the show, where the show and all the memories behind them would live on and continue to be appreciated by millions.
> 
> So regardless of what official finale we get, now we know somewhere, somehow, two boys left all their memories behind in a wonderful Supernatural circus for safekeeping. 
> 
> Happy Hunting.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments comments comments!


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